Background

The man in the van wanted something to see,

a landmark to find where the package should be.

I told him the tree, then I told him the fence,

but nothing I said seemed to make any sense.

I walk past the hydrant every morning at six.

Is it red? Is it yellow? Is it rusted for kicks?

I couldn't tell him if my life was the stake,

the shape of the thing or the color of flake.

I only remember a tuft of brown grass

in the lip of the curb where the bicycles pass.

It’s been there all summer, ignored and ignored,

like a scratch in the grain of a floorboard.