We live our lives
between the pages
of a dictionary
placed here by some
odd coincidence of origin
our inked skin defines us
to one another, though
we still struggle to understand
the words being shouted
from this album leftresting on a high shelf
My wife watches from her post
on the porch as I disappear
into the garage, emerging
a few minutes later, after
some clanging and banging,
carrying a ladder.
A satisfied look settles
on her face, thinking
I am finally getting
to the honey- do list
to the refrigerator.
“What are you doing?”
She calls after me as I walk
to the middle of the yard, laying
the ladder in the un-mowed grass.
Sharp, deep green blades part to make way
for the aluminum rungs and rails.
Without answering, I stand back, admiring
the play of the sun off the gleaming metal
and the contrast of silver and green
before returning to my blue plastic chair
on the ray soaked patio, picking up
pencil and notebook once again. Intending
to write about the jaunty angle of the ladder.
Or, how unapparent it would be to any observer
as to which way is up and
which is down and where
one would be going anyways
that such a conveyance would be needed.
The re-imagined structure has become
as much a curiosity to me-
the creator as the hundreds
of bugs now crawling along it stiles.
Behind me I hear the opening
And closing of the back door.