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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 carinvisibly through the breezeway.He likewise left behinda thirty-foot aluminum ladderthat hangs on the back of the shed.My gutters are clogged,and I've wanted to ask herfor the ladder, but thoughtI might break open some old wound.I might as well go overand fire up that brick barbecuehe built, a hearthyou could spit a pig on,side grill, wood storage,warming box with its own tiny door,all this zigguratingup to the chimney.The late Mr. Cateslaid bricks and blocks,painted the shutters,built a carport,drove the postsfor a split-rail fence,weatherstripped the doorsand 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.")
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