A poem by Will Burns.

Pulling weeds at my parents’ house,
though they don’t live here anymore.
When I’m done,
perhaps nothing will.

Hair clip dog toy archaeology
of the previous occupants –
specifically the sister (most-wronged of us all)
and her small suburban family
(common or garden variety) –
abandoned bird box, tennis ball, rusty trowel.

Did I really live here once as well?
Or was it over and over again,
that I went on living here,
even once I’d left – forever pissing against
the very fence I was now,
having cleared the ivy.

The kites are circling –
smelling midlife melancholy on the updraft.
I should be chirpier in the heart of the summer.
Should see more of my sister.