In honor of National Poetry Day, a poem about digging up a place that was once alive.  


Velvet buds acquiesce

to their senescence,

tumbling to the ground in adulation

of the incoming weeds.


Plastic bowls and absconded kitchenware

stuffed with dried buckthorn berries and

dusty rocks.

Leftovers of the children’s last supper.


Paint stretching away from

sagging wooden companions

revealing the depth of their combined

inveterate fatigue.


Peanut butter jars repurposed for

bolts and nails of every creed and race

tucked in with the dust of sporadic observers

coming to pay homage to the deceased carpenter.


Hushing headlong into the antiquity.

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