It is always the dispossessed— br someone driving a huge rusted Dodge br that’s burning oil, and must cost br twenty-five dollars to fill. br br br Today before seven I saw, through br the morning fog, his car leave the road, br turning into the field. It must be br his day off, I thought, or he’s out br of work and drinking, or getting stoned. br Or maybe as much as anything br he wanted to see br where the lane through the hay goes. br br br It goes to the bluff overlooking br the lake, where we’ve cleared br brush, swept the slippery oak br leaves from the path, and tried to destroy br the poison ivy that runs br over the scrubby, sandy knolls. br br br Sometimes in the evening I’ll hear br gunshots or firecrackers. Later a car br needing a new muffler backs out br to the road, headlights withdrawing br from the lowest branches of the pines. br br br Next day I find beer cans, crushed; br sometimes a few fish too small br to bother cleaning and left br on the moss to die; or the leaking br latex trace of outdoor love.... br br br Once I found the canvas sling chairs br broken up and burned. br br br Whoever laid the fire gathered stones br to contain it, like a boy pursuing br a merit badge, who has a dream of work, br and proper reward for work.