Henry Spottswood

The year’s leaves fell
along the Ohio, exposing
three drifter camps on the bank.
A neighborhood of variegated
enclaves gerrymandered for pristine
views of the mudding river.

Graced with backyard clutter.
A blue beach ball. Rust lays claim to
a charcoal grill, two shopping carts,
a bicycle. Driftwood is piled for fires
against the evenings’growing chill.
A blanket is drying on a limb.
Shirts. On a bamboo fishing pole,
Old Glory. One lot sports
a sagging armchair.

I’d soon as not sit an afternoon
on one of those milk crates.

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