The star folk insist in their spangled lingo
that I tell you they love pink plastic flamingo
lawn ornaments, the oval shape, the angle
black leg-stance, stiletto beak, elegant curve
of the neck. They drive out on Sundays to observe
yard and garden art. Sometimes they return unnerved
or mystified: the wooden old woman
as she bends to weed, displaying her bloomers—
they aren’t certain, but they think it’s humor.
The statue of Mary, who may be in distress
under half an up-ended bath tub—they express
their bewilderment and would rescue her if asked.
They love wind socks, flags, running whirligigs,
cream separator cones my Uncle Albert rigged
in wind wheels, and weather vanes with arrows and fat pigs.