The Barn at the Country House

There’s resilience in this barn,

which blocks our view from the kitchen window.

It’s of no use to us, really.

This farm will never see cows again.

The cats, who lick our face

and howl at dawn,

sleep in the house,

not the barn.

A milk bucket blocks the hole that

the groundhogs gnawed through the floor,

and a twin harness dangles from the wall.

It’s unlikely we would keep a horse.

Who would feed it during the week?

It is an old barn, but it is not a noble barn.

A horsehoe is nailed to a framing board

that was whitewashed,

perhaps fifty years ago,

probably more.

There is no one living

who knows

 who forged the door latch.

An empty file cabinet is stored behind

grandstand seats from Yankee Stadium

and chintzy lawn chairs 

during the winter.

A sign for a defunct motor car,

pocked with buckshot,

stands awry in the corner.

We don’t tear this barn down because,

in its shabby way

it is resilient.


It draws its resilience from our lethargy.

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