So Much DependsPinkball in the yard corner
a rusted station wagon, amputated at its left wheels–
the rust isn’t vibrant, battery-acid orange.
Even the brown of the rust is tired,
blending, as it does, with the wood paneling.
in the yard’s corner
that was wild, once.
Now it’s dead:
The sun bleached the life out of it.
Pink ball in the corner
of the yard, next to the fence.
Those pickets were white once
away from the house.
Pink ball in the corner of the yard:
So bright in this sad place that I wonder if its very color was on special.
The porch next to it is broken
the paint is peelin’
the door hangs, crooked
next to a window that’s boarded over.
A pink ball,
christened with toddler
That’s where hope