the gate

the unhinged gate
in disrepair,
leaning
on it's white
trimmed shoulder
with peeling
paint, a rusted
bolt that
neither slides
or closes
one in or out,
and the thick
grass too
has no memory
as to who
has come and gone.
that worn
path no longer
there, the collected
stones, once
playful seats
now cold
and overgrown.