art

you string a line
of rope, taut
and white,
from one end of
the yard to the other,
you wash your clothes
then go out to
hang them in
the stiff wind.
sheets of color,
black socks,
blue shirts like
flags, that dress
you left last summer,
or fall, so hard
to remember.
people come for
miles to see this.
they stand behind
the chain link fence
and smoke cigarettes.
they call it art, you
call it something else.