every week. The answer
is the same. He can look
at the clouds and ask
how it rains. He can listen

to the woodpecker peck
at the trees, ask how he doesn't
leave, as not a spec is found. Man
has asked if the earth is round. He can
look at the stain in his carpet. I haven't forgot

it. True as the harvest moon,
a life in the stain. The woodpecker
pecks for insects in the hollow pit
of dead wood.  He pecks for answers

in the hollow pit of a dead stain. It's caked
on as the bark. Just a touch and it falls
off. The wind blew down the tree in her
yard. It's ashes now as her grandpa's

cigar. Planted years past by a woman's
hand, a madman's plans -
now is rotten as the stain. All's forgot. But
the plot it sits in silence.