Kathleen Hellen

On foot, wandering. No compelling reason, even if contrived: mouse-trap
buying, letter posting, paper fetching—nonetheless, to shape—from urban
streets not fields from avenues not daffodils—and so reshape the houses
striped with judgment in the awnings, hedged, cyclone fenced and tangled
in the scandal of patrols, the kitsch::ceramic frogs, ceramic bunnies; ceramic gnomes waist-deep in dandelions losing faith in whiskered seed; a crow
protests the light at Walker ticking red; the fox is fugitive—middle class,
or so it might have been—roving toward a dented white Corolla.