There is little
to love here:

wreck of a house,
rotten driveway,
neglected garden laden
with young vegetables
that will not ripen in time
to beat this fall’s killing frost;

everyone who lives here
pushed to residency,
thread hangers holding
skin of the teeth tenancy;
the worst house on the street,
the neighbors always say —
though the kids from the first floor
seem happy enough,
greeting everyone out walking
from the driveway where they play,
bouncing a dirty ball between them
in spite of the uneven pavement

that too often sends it
off into the wilderness
by the failed tomatoes

and sends them giggling
after it.