Seeds were sown each year, but nothing grew.
Leaves never reddened or purpled in autumn,
Only helplessly fluttered to the ground like fallen feathers,
Excess castaways from the branches’ and bark’s anhinga.

The pipes of rust and lime are nothing like dreams;
They drip at times, gush at others, capricious as seasons in Ohio,
Pinched reveries wrung out, hung out to dry on clotheslines but
A wind would whistle them onto the browned grass.

Mr. Delaney bore no occupation; Mrs., no more fruit.
The younger son died with pneumonia;
The older with a purple heart.
The dog is older and more unseemly than the shingles atop the house.

Each morning, the couple would stroll along Ellis drive
spilling misfortune and drowning the street with beggar’s wine,
hand-in-hand, step in sync,
two pairs of lips bent perfectly into smiles.