Bud Caywood – Four Poems

Back Yard
—Circa 1968

Beyond the garage
gray air moves
upward—

smoke, soot, something
needing identification
from the fire,

my heart vibrates,
I trace one question—
“Who started it?”

**

Back Yard
—Circa 1986

Cracked glass of a small kitchen
where the wimpy dogs run yipping
over green linoleum shows suddenly
through the window the cat that
sits on the bench in the garden—
those dam dogs jumping at the back door,
whole gammas of teeth and saliva;
the cat laughs.

**

Back Yard
—Circa 2001

A half-field with in-between openings, gates to pass through,
bird feeders peaked in excrement, gravel walks,
grass the texture of a cow field—that black walnut sap
coming down on your neck, then hornets.
Accept a place of your own inserted gauntlets,
then sing to a home with a roof that doesn’t leak.

**

Back Yard
—Circa 2010

Lake with its source in fog, blue, gray,
reflects dock-light linings and silver-backed leaves.
Seen from a wooden deck high in the trees
a fast thunderstorm coming darkens the sky.
Home here, back yard looks over obscure water.

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