for Marilyn Shapley

If I were a neighborhood
I’d keep a Mississippi kite nest
and one plastic bag in tatters
up in the loft of an oak.

I’d pull sunset down
into a horizon of tangled branches
that have the voice of an owl.

Shadow and frayed light would 
wash over hoods and windshields
dappled under tree branches, street lamps
as cars accelerate into midnight.

By sleight of hand, any sewage
which could be mistaken
for what happens to my soul
during this age of perplexed confusion

would be trundled off underground
unsmelled, unseen to be treated,
assaulted with chemicals, then
pumped into rivers that nourish
bass, crappie and catfish 
in their soulful, looping
pathways towards the Gulf.

I would let all of the dogs pee
wherever the dogs want to pee
as their masters stare into time
at the other end of a crescent of leash.

I would let old house timbers rot,
let rodents burrow and scuttle,
snakes sizzle through grass blades,
lawns receive regular crew cuts 
and birds weave subtle tapestries 
through broad expanses of daylight.
                        

House without a husband that seems hermetically sealed,
its children too quiet for anyone's good.
House with a German Shepherd chain link can barely contain.
House of the immaculate lawn and monster truck.

House with the garage door rolled up to show two lazy-boys, 
one generous rag-rug, a flat screen tv, refrigerator, gas stove,
chairs for guests, talk radio, talk radio, talk radio. 

House of utter disarray with a couple who mope and shuttle
as if they are eternally blind, fumblingly blind as baby mice.
Weeds between the gaps in their driveway
surround a primer-gray pickup with boxes of what the hell
tumbled high in its cab. The otherwise forgettable day
that couple moved in is the last day the pickup ever budged.

House with the blue pool, fairy lights, Tiki bar.
House of a hundred projects, some finished.
House of wine parties. House with rescue dogs
who require tireless walks that send the German shepherd
into a tizzy. Still the chair link holds.

House with bikes, scooters, fluttering children.
House that keeps its lights on every second
as if it is a solitary beacon on the evidently perilous shores
of our neighborhood. House of suicide ten years ago followed 
by the whisperings of suicide – then the long quiet afterwards
which included a great deal of scouring 
and trip after trip to Goodwill where anyone can unload 
sorrow into the waiting arms of sorrowful attendees. 

House of bird baths, roses, feeders that is also
the house of the retired principal who begs questions.
How much more can flesh shrink and prune
on bones already dangerously thin? How can it take
a human being that long to walk across a lawn?
Can a woman be transformed into a praying mantis?
Does Zeus still have the power to do such things 
and if he wants to, why doesn't he just get the job done? 

House with the overburdened bike and large child.
House with two birch trees that have grown into each other
as we have grown into each other
under the quiet arms of great oak.