BY BILL GLOSE
Take up a hobby they all suggest,
something to fill his mind, shift
its focus from never-ending wars
and all they’ve taken. Stamps, coins,
baseball cards—none do the trick.
All that gathering and preserving
in museums never open to visitors.
But out in the junkyard, amidst
pestering flies and pecking gulls,
he swims within that blessed swirl
of white noise, rooting mounds
and rescuing broken discards
that a bit of care might mend.
Each piece replanted on his lawn,
up to the boundary of his
frowning neighbor’s yard,
range of rising peaks
something a mountaineer
might gaze upon with lust.
Sell your junk they all implore,
but how to choose what has value,
what does not? Black pit
of that question yawns
with hunger so strong
it could devour the hand
that feeds it, swallowing
every little thing he thought
he could somehow save.