This cannot be a poem

There is nothing here that can become a poem

It has lain dormant over a decade

Refusing to sprout in this barren

Scratched-over farmyard

And even today it causes me to wonder

About the pain of the people who lived

In that house

About any pain I might consider because

At least they…

What gave them the right?

The things that can happen

While the sun is shining

While the grass is refusing to grow

While the chickens are scratching

In a dusty front yard

Who can say what these things are

Or how insignificant?