the alley is lined with pallet composters,
filled with this fall’s dumping
of flowers and trailing vines; a series of uniform
black plastic bins,
and ubiquitous overhead wires—
this is where we live
collectively, and individually
monotone garage doors framed with suspect cameras
suggest a wealth of items under wraps,
despite a hazard of things
left out
a blue chair—decked with dust—leans
against slabs of unused shingles,
a borrowed traffic sign, plus
gently used items marked “free” for anyone wanting
to fix a bike, clean a stroller,
polish off the paint
everywhere, fragments of stories appear at odds
with the frontage, prove irresistible,
become the reason why some of us walk here,
regularly
wondering at the declaration of trust in a side of life
that tends to thrive out back, content
with the unfinished
this poem appears in my book Quiet Waters