By Wendy S. Walters

The approach to the house imitates
one flat piece of rock. But you own this road.
It dead-ends at a yard as if stopping
by reflex answers the same intention
as building home. Fabrication invites ,
trespass while neighbors admire your lot
from over there. Enough distance allows
romances with other people’s trouble.
Arguments fly from their houses. A string
tightens then breaks, one more lost kite. To stand
on this slab of slag and fly ash means you
have no perspective. The world might be what
you expected, benign as providence.
Wait here. Everything is coming to you.