As I ride the rails through Italy,
inspiration of unnumbered front yards,
the train seems to pummel rather 
through the back door of Indiana — 

half-mowed fields, tossed aside tires,
lean-tos stuffed with assorted buckets,
roofs ready for ruin —
all tucked away in secret backways.

We turn our backs
to make things disappear.
We hope that graffiti once dried
no longer carries the stain
of trespass.