It is from here, parked behind
this house rented in the complex,

that she sees a rabbit race
from dark to dark across

the headlights and says to me,
“look at that rabbit.” The communal lawn

displays a wading pool, a swing set, and an orange
and purple plastic truck. We look

at the rabbit though the rabbit
is long gone or just out

of the observable, outside the insistence
of light in front of the stationary

and air-conditioned vehicle
on the cracked, littered

and weedy lot; with wars on the station.
It is gone out of sight and into the imagined

world of realized consumption and actual rest
and a good chance of not being eaten tonight

and how loud can the neighbor be to be
heard addressing her grievance

to her friend departing her porch? Possession
after possession is hurled in the red glow.

No, the snow shovel can be used in summer

if you are one who cannot bend far,
whose arms do not straighten,
whose arthritic fingers cannot be made to reach

to the ground without the whole body being
dropped to the ground. If the body dropped
is unable to rise unaided.

There is a key to open your door.

The key, dropped, unreachable there,
must be retrieved. The snow shovel can be used to
scoop the key, to lift it. If the snow shovel

is held close, then the key can be grasped.
The shovel is replaced, the door is unlocked.
Enter your home. Examine your shame.

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