She twiddles with the camera on her new Smartphone,
showing how much the undergrowth has overgrown.
Primrose, jasmine, and even rhododendron
bloom at night. Amy shares with everyone
a battered old basin that sinks to its lip in mud,
her garden, pummeled by an unexpected flood.
The steepled roof of the house angles down
like a brocaded, whale-ribbed wedding gown.
It’s not a husband whom Amy pines for
as she slips beneath the soffit in the downpour,
lights a fat Cohiba, seeking refuge from the showers.
Where is Ada, Madonna of the evening flowers?
