Post-American

Bougainvillea and Tuscan tile on the patio, sunset composed above the lake. 
Between one altar and the other is interposed a southering flock of monarchs. 
There's a chair for a daemon at the table. There's a residue of genius on the lawn. 
A black streak mars the driveway brick: someone peeled rubber and was gone. 
A shadow in the orangery echoes a shadow on the croquet court 
Where a wedge of colored balls points to the shadow of a rusting golf cart. 
Up the stone walkway, the empty fountain holds an empty pigeon's nest 
Within which bits of eggshell are memento mori of a form, erased. 
They are gone to offices and classrooms, to the factory and the killing floor, 
To the florist, to the hospice, to the bank, to the barn, to be burnt, to be blind, to be born, 
And lizards sun on the patio stone where the skull of a cat gives its stare—
Desperate and worshipful, hopeless, starved, permanent, and alone—
Waiting for someone to finally come home from making and being made, 
Or for gods to gyre on the water again and settle rough on the blasted esplanade.