-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 have yet to 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.
Quequechan
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