-a journey to the backside of the world-

you’re outside. you’re at the rear, southwest corner of the house.

inside, you’d be standing at the kitchen sink.

outside, you’re standing at the approach to the backside of the world.

those who go there stand motionless, stone-faced, preparing for a snapshot.

you’re at the drainpipe.

––It’s where they all show-up sooner or later.

family, friends, questionable relations, girlfriends, boyfriends, those who've been hospitalized and those who will soon be hospitalized, all gravitate to the drainpipe

for the snapshot as if programed to do so.

––but standing there, and to the left, all who come will have a good view

of the craggy vegetable garden, which in winter becomes a weave of dryness

yielding its plot of ground to the season.

to the right, during rejuvenation, stands the grapevine’s succulent canopy, which

in winter becomes a tangle of tightly woven rope-like vines winding their way

on the march to the sun.

between these landmarks lies a no-man’s-land of unused space, save for common transport.

there’s a chain-linked fence ahead, and beyond its gate stands the frozen junkyard, whose

rusted hulks, (particularly after a summer's rain) smear the atmosphere with the scent

of dying metal. the drainpipe has given birth to these places, and

––you can’t get to them without passing through its portal to the backside of the world.

It’s God’s own drainpipe, forged in its image, who maketh all who come to travel by sight-line to the garden and grapevine, through no-man’s-land, to the fence and the junkyard, then back to stand at the drainpipe, stone-faced, waiting for the light of their image

to be shuttered, and trapped within the contraption, then documented for oncoming generations who will never, ever go there, and by "there" I mean.. the drainpipe.

Quequechan