The way negligee really did mean
neglected. Blues haunting
her of late: a harvest table’s milk
paint, watery landscapes formed by the advances
and retreats of garage doors, the fenders
on her four-year-old’s SuperCycle MoonRider.
She stood corrected in the front garden. The city came
to remove lead piping, last year’s tulips
were reshuffled. She admired the two black
walnuts the grey squirrels planted,
their catholic nature, how their juglone-laced
exudate choked out flimsy periwinkle,
transparent hydrangea.