same walk as yesterday

When I was a child the yard was full of slugs. Juncos and black flies.
Mom gave us nickels and dimes to take snails to the pond

Tossed into bushes along the path,
I’d enjoy the weight of them leaving my hand

a clean arch,
a gentle rustle
from the leaves, softening their fall. 

Today I walked through neighborhoods
and longed for the smell of Daisy’s garage.

A comfort both exotic
and familiar,

not advertised in brochures or 
open houses.

And why do people 
buy houses?

This yard, the landscaping is dull.
I like the ones with trees, 
but
of course I do.

A sound like splitting styrofoam,
a man peels wooden boards 
from the roof, beside a hollow window.

Such a strange contrast–
a house otherwise sturdy, uniform,
but the wood peels like
stubborn orange peel,
with little effort.

Oh to have the confidence
to take apart and
put back together.

Otto did,
and I remember when he 
fixed the TV
and I was so impressed, a task beyond
my comprehension,

but still 
he didn’t pass
high school English.

I write this now knowing that it lacks 
theme,
that there is nothing here
but the same feelings that live
in the last 4 poems
I’ve written.
There is no clever connection
to those snails in the yard,
no allegory attached
to fixed TVs or
broken windows. 

But I am tired,
and I miss those snails,
and I miss that garage,
and therapy just seems too hard
to schedule
right now.