Not a lot depends
on it, tucked in between the greenhouse wall
and far end of the paint-peeled potting shed,
near where an empty nest box waits to fall
from one last nail’s well-rusted sawn-off head.
It backs against the barbs of next door’s fence,
where briars poke through sun-stripped wooden slats,
dead nettle deep in rye grass negligence
and thistles too thick-snarled for stalking cats
to crouch on paw-primed hidden demon springs,
intent on wreaking flick-clawed feline harm.
With its supporting pair of lion kings
sleep-stretched along each sturdy iron arm,
the old seat lolls in evening’s mellow light
with not a sole red wheelbarrow in sight.
With apologies to William Carlos Williams