The Lot

Driving by I used to see

a couple of guys and a woman.

Bleach blonde with a little white dog.

Black and red plaid jackets,

rubber boots, toques askew.

Clearing, burning brush,

piling wood and puttering.

 

Or gathered around the fire

on aluminum lawn chairs,

passing a dented thermos.

 

The place seemed more won

than bought. Cut into the bush

at the side of the road.

 

Now they’ve disappeared

leaving behind a thin grey frame

on broken pallets.

A shack in the making

that keeps standing up and falling over.

Torn poly hanging, yellow and brittle.

They must be around

but I never see them anymore.

 

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