In an effort to shame myself into writing more, I'm going to post--gasp--incomplete work. Here is a poem I began last year but still can't quite figure out what I want it to be, or what it needs to be. There's a cracked green hose that needs in, I think. Perhaps in the posting of it, or in your comments, I will find the poem's true shape.
My Neighbor
brown camellia blossoms lie scattered
on the ancient Sparkl-Wite gravel.
One flower, still pink, has fallen
in a stainless steel water dish
abandoned by a long-gone dog.
I imagine another version:
crisp bleached linen, silver antique bowl, floating flowers
A few camellias, both pink and brown, cling to their positions
among the green leaves of the bush.
In the driveway, behind the locked chainlink gate,
a Jaguar, gleaming.
The curtains at the window never move.
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