April is the ugliest month
in small northern towns
where not a single flower
has sprung nor leaf sprouted.
Snow cover gone from roadside
piles of sand studded
with plastic bags, empty beers.
In yards and fields, collapsed
sheds, broken boats, parts
of autos, empty paint cans and swollen chairs
the brown stubs of last year’s shrubs
soggy cardboard, tangled iron.
Picnic tables like overturned beetles
stick their dirty feet skyward.
April showers bring rainbows of old gas
floating on rivers of mud.
The mangy black dog opens
one eye.