c'est la vie
and dust blows across an empty yard.
the black dog chews on a child-sized
soccer ball, but no
remonstrating voice echoes out across the silence.
its one of those haunting scenes that
can only come in the jagged air of an
forgotten sandbox toys, and a doll
lying facedown by the apple trees.
the golden curls are too familiar- they
bought the doll for her and called it her twin,
such as she never went anywhere without it. but
it will never be picked up and placed in a toybox
like a child's grave.
as the apples of seasons and seasons pile
the house is dark and cigarette smoke
curls around the edges until it makes an
almost visible aura around it,
that people may avert their eyes as they walk past,
murmuring about tragedies and stone angels and
the soft air of impending summer gives way to
night, and fireflies,
and the television blares painfully,
to mask the sounds
of neighbor children's laughter.