The Garden Shed

Could I live in this
thing? Good shack, sturdy

 

shed, reliable
Home Hardware

 

special, I’ll make
a place where the mower

 

might have been,
one square window

 

to steam with a kettle
atop a potbelly

 

stove, beans
and stew when I see

 

someone coming,
plaid and bad patch

 

of beard when I don’t:
I’m there already,

 

stupidly proud of my
misery, pulling

 

cans from an overstocked
pantry, the black flies

 

threatening me
while I rant against

 

the covenants
of my old suburban

 

zone—not
here, not as I set up

 

on a bluff
near a beach,

 

eccentric cough
of the cliff, believing

 

there’s a bead
of wind to climb back

 

with, one knotted
rope that knows

 

its way down to the water,
and a claystone

 

rosary still
waiting below.