imageRobin Reagler
A Berryman House

Has something like a garden out in back.
Is gray. Like so many things. I'll drink to that.
A job, a friend, address: not that I lack
Any of the essential stuff. In fact—
No, I won't start up my lying habit yet.
A chemical solution clears my mind
Of little tics. I focus on the faucet
Near the door. The doctor says I'm fine.

Here everybody speaks a foreign language.
I hesitate to wedge myself inside
A situation new to me: the rotten edge
Just lying there like secret pesticide—

And who the pest, that's what you're wondering now.
And what gray trellis we be creeping down.