each spring.
tadpoles.
most would die and float
to the top.
they'd skim them out
with long nets on poles,
stretching
their old arms
out across the unclear pond
bricked in.
they'd send a picture of the pool
once filled
and cleaned,
the old motor churning, as
a plume
of black smoke floated towards
a suburban sky.
the leaves of winter gone.
the mildew
and algae scrubbed away.
the remnants of passing geese
scraped
off the walk way.
then the invitation would come.
for the memorial day cookout.
bring what you want
to eat,
and drink
have fun.
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