Maybe it was the house north of Steele Hill
or the one southwest of East Afton
but it was the one on a road so insignificant that even
the big atlas didn’t have a number for it
Maybe it was built in the 1930s, as the Depression wound down
or maybe it was built to house a returning soldier,
a once-young man ready for the simple life
of a high plains farmer
Maybe there were elm trees all around, once,
or maybe the trees were only lined up on the west side,
shielding the place from the unending wind
Maybe it was abandoned when the wife died
and the husband did, too, the next winter
or maybe the farmer went broke or sold out to a larger place
but the paint fell away
and the window glass did, too,
and the porch fell down
and the roof caved in
And then the final elm
delivered the coupe de grace
crashing through what was left of the structure
giving it a boost toward oblivion
2009
misc. and so forth 