Condominium of the Trees
We bought a condominium on Oak Lane
on Maple Avenue, on Willow Drive. The elms
were all dead, but it might have been
Linden Boulevard or Chestnut Hill. Who knows?
I have it carved, here, somewhere on my wrist.
The blood is almost dry and besides,
my eyes are better now, after drops and drugs.
We pay the association fee.
We drink some wine, wave at faces in the window glass.
Some nights we play tennis while neighbors
roast a pig or do their origami in the sand.
We’re playful, use their middle names.
They call us Roosevelt and Jane, but we don’t mind.
In summer, we use the pool and water
rises above our necks. Sometimes we pick lettuce
in the moonlight, or find mushrooms growing
by birches tangled on the lawn. We fish in the koi pond,
slip between shadows in the road.
It’s a good life in the Condominium of the Trees.
On a hot day, we saw a squirrel stretched out on the railing
of our deck, a rubbery gray shape drained of anxiety.
No blood was spilt and we soon returned to our game of Bridge.
We won at Scrabble, lost at Trivial Pursuit. We found our sandals
beneath a flaming bush. Night came on and we headed
home, or were we there already, rubbing our noses in the fragrant grass?
Steve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His latest collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press), and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).