PRIVATE ROAD
Dusty, sun-stroked,
the attic rose in sepia haze, a photograph
c. 1880: broad floorboards laid down
before the Civil War, square-nailed,
lined up in lockstep. The old colonial,
ours for two decades, reached
the low point of that once vast estate,
the winding drive half gone to grass,
two antique oaks slanted toward firewood,
and, in the back quarter, shrubby remains
that forgot to be formal gardens.
The basement, walls old boulders
lain to foundation, seethed a cheerful
vegetable air. Reduced to two acres,
the mansion had been surrounded by houses
generations younger, like an old roué
by children whose names he cannot remember.
The massive horse-chestnut
trailed its skirts on barren ground,
concealing a bower of greenery within.
From the demilune windows in the attic,
on a clear day you could see Connecticut.
—from Rattle #74, Winter 2021
__________
William Logan: “I write poems for the only sensible reason, the big bucks. The muse is good company, but she doesn’t carry a wallet.”
