Landscape Fabric


What have I come for
if not some news of you, old
neighbor who moved away,
my ancient of days? Every day
I come to the same place
and wait. I sit with a traffic of tiny
ants swerving to-and-fro
in the sidewalk crack, the stroller
parked at the garage door.

I wait with the empty watering
can, the landscape fabric’s
torn end put out like a tongue
in pea gravel. It’s the torn end
that I cling to, the tattered lip
of black plastic that sits up,
lies down at the wind’s request.