Covet

always something to wish, to want, often well beyond our needs. The idea of "keeping up with (and exceeding) the Joneses" has been with us a lot longer than the early 20th century origins of the phrase. But coveting can take many forms. When I was newly divorced and living alone in a new community, what I coveted was not someone else's good life but the tools for making my own. And in the blending of observation and speculation that becomes a poem, that ladder became the object of my desire.

Mr. Cates, he's dead.

His widow creeps to the car

invisibly through the breezeway.

He likewise left behind

a thirty-foot aluminum ladder

that hangs on the back of the shed.

My gutters are clogged,

and I've wanted to ask her

for the ladder, but thought

I might break open some old wound.

I might as well go over

and fire up that brick barbecue

he built, a hearth

you could spit a pig on,

side grill, wood storage,

warming box with its own tiny door,

all this ziggurating

up to the chimney.

The late Mr. Cates

laid bricks and blocks,

painted the shutters,

built a carport,

drove the posts

for a split-rail fence,

weatherstripped the doors

and windows,

and put a gaslight out by the street.

All I want is the ladder.

("Covet," which was awarded Greg Grummer Prize in Poetry, originally appeared in "Phoebe.")