Poem Beginning With a Line From Wordsworth

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

and the neighbor has shoveled his horseshit

in the garden, bucket after bucket

dumped from rusting pickup to veggie beds,

tomato plants staked with splintered handles

of rakes, cucumbers vined through chicken wire

strung from nail-studded two-by-fours braced

by scrap leather, by snapped fan belts, even

the cinder-blocked Charger sprouting lilac

through its shattered windshield, oil drums halved

for onions and carrots, coffee cans hung

to gather rain in apple-heavy limbs

above the swing where he sits with his wife

when evenings are beauteous, calm and free.

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