At the corner of City Camp and Legarda,

the gate was green.
The houses on our street
had fences made of rusted

chicken wire.
The chickens themselves
reigned over each backyard.

Bullies, they trumpeted
each day into beginning.
The baker at the end

of the lane rose
to double a fist
into the dough.

His daughters did not
often smile, on their way
to school or church,

identical braids
swinging. Our kitchen
window overlooked

a lot where trucks
came and went, hauling
sand and gravel.

Sometimes they carried
a load of river stones,
resinous timber

poached from forests
under cover of night—
On the one-lane road,

chevron of tires
inked with soil
from somewhere else.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Green house.

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