William Grenfell Davies Jr.

They say the place was left.
A coterie of vines
with orange knuckles
grips the rain gutter,
a lilac bush crams
its purple-faced commuters
between the spindles
of the porch railing.
Cattails sound
from the pond
a brown suede xylophone.
And a mattress spring
is scrimshawed onto
the white-washed bones
of the barn.