With a bow to Vladimir Nabokov who began Pale Fire
with a couplet that still reverberates many years later.
Splitting the sheltering pine in twain
a raindrop elongates on the windowpane.
From the clothestree a yellow slicker hangs
like an amputee lounging on one limb.
The jar with the rusty lid stores spiral nails;
plastic pots nest atop a motley paint can;
the utility lamp still with its bulb burnt out,
old tools elude the grasp of the curio man.
A cigar lasts longer than a glass of wine,
the smoke unfurling like an easy rhyme
mid scents of varsol, hints of mouldy tack
and the subtle essence of the firewood stack.
Taped to the windowpane, a paper raptor
deters live birds from a looking-glass war;
and like a suitor adorning his precious bride
a patina casts rainbows on the tree outside.