N OT E FO R I N S P E C TO R P O E T RY
S e an Ma d d e n If you’re here for the window, newly installed, framing exposed for your scrutiny: please, do not knock. Please keep your thumb off the bell. I won’t come to the door, preoccupied as I presently am. Use the gate, which I’ve unlocked for you; the one by the gardenias, the birches. Shut it softly, so the wood by the latch, already splintered, doesn’t snap. Follow the path along the house; mind the toy trucks my sons have left scattered about; I would hate for you to trip, fall. Take in the scene. The Indian hawthorn, the African daisies. Toward the crape myrtles, you might spy an Easter egg, the plastic, hollow kind, nestled near the base of a potato bush. Open it, I implore you; when you see me, don’t tell me the score. And you will see me, you will. I will find you in the yard, in the shade of a redbud, sniffing a rose. I will bring the permit for your signature. I will be with you. I will be with you shortly.
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