Across our mutual fence, salutations

were swapped twice in three long years.

one time, surplus tomatoes were offered

and accepted but with visible unease;

he looked as if I had presented bad fruit.

His meek response, a nodding weak smile.

In May, during a storm, a limb crashed

across our fence; searching our canopies

of oak, the origin was undetermined, so I

claimed the splintered bough to chop & burn.

No mention of the damaged fence. “O.K.

and thanks.” he said, walking away, for good.

In grass uncut six months or more, Frosty, 

almost hidden from view by weeds long dead,

sorely desires to melt away with all hope

of retrieval loss.  Santa reclines on matted,

desiccated grass, face turned from passerby;

sun bleached now, but with a flush of shame 

adding blush to fat cheeks of plastic mold.

 The wading pool, deflated, soldered tight

to the ground by heat and grim, once rang

with peals of childish glee, making me grin,

from the kid I saw with Mom, herself,

a large, redheaded girl, white as Frosty.

 Beneath two windows still sits the swings

predictably askew.  Limp chains, devoid

of seats, hang purely plumb, Heaven to Hell,

perfect parallelograms aligning Here and There,

Want and Need; impervious to debate or fault.