I wish I could say the furnace
squatting in my yard
is a sculpture by Alexander Calder.

Scrap metal drum
with pipes and faucet prone
to spit   water

  could be his way of defining
the housewife whose breath
is steam-hissing through bones

and a radiator of shoulder blades
that stands nonchalant
letting a stray breeze
shrug off the dust.

That would make its presence
significant, a work of art
to contrast the silent poise
of stones and wide-sleeved pine
bending like geisha to serve tea.

I can only say the furnace lingers
because a plumber honored
half his contract. He installed
a new system and neglected
to haul the old one from my garden.

When it rains
water floats on the rusted surface,
birds bathe in tequila
and I become their patron saint
wearing clogs and blue denim.



�2006 by Wendy Howe