When I was younger
it was plain to me
I must make something of myself.
Older now
I walk back streets
admiring the houses

of the very poor:
roof out of line with sides
the yards cluttered
with old chicken wire, ashes,
furniture gone wrong;
the fences and outhouses
built of barrel-staves
and parts of boxes, all,
if I am fortunate,
smeared a bluish green
that properly weathered
pleases me best
of all colors.

⁠No one
will believe this
of vast import to the nation.