The Neighbor's Weave

The Neighbors' Weave



by C.L. Bledsoe




The vacant lot behind my house is
a carpet laid down for birds;
a green shag swaying in the slow ceiling fan breeze.
That and the blue white toothpaste clouds
settling in the porcelain sink of the sky
remind me this is someone else's home.


Buildings, like furniture placed oddly
to hide stains in a rug,
almost ruin the natural feng-shui of things -
the mirrored tops of lakes are forgotten, flower
beds are placed out of sight of doorways . . .
I wonder if the birds see my neighborhood
as a series of squatter shacks.


I throw out bread that the birds don't eat,
and water blueberries that they do
in a plot that's mine for now,
but someone else's when the lease is up.
Men are pulling the carpet up in the vacant lot;
revealing a clean scrubbed floor of dirt beneath,
waiting for someone to track cement across it.

CL Bledsoe

Posted over on Spillway Review