by Robert Levine

Created on: August 31, 2007

THE HIDDEN COURTYARD

Two tall russet brick houses extend
back deep from the street: rounded wings
honeycombed with apartments frame
flagstone steps and porches in front of
latticed glass front doors; between them,
a cement path runs like a balloon's string
to an open space at their rear where glimpsed
evergreen shrubs hint a garden. A respite
from boxy cinderblock triple-deckers

(their walls cracked and plastered, their doorknobs falling
off at a touch) and empty lots
overrun by thorn bushes and fleabane.

In eight years here, I haven't taken the time
to learn what hides in that courtyard;
I imagine a flourishing, refreshing
retreat from consignment stores and pawn shops,
smashed whiskey bottles and crushed beer cans.
Now I'm moving. It would be a waste
to never discover what small, secret beauty
these houses shield from the city's trash.

The walkway leads to a gateless chain-link fence
tethering the houses to each other-unseen when I've
sped by on the street. Beyond, a strip of yard
enclosed by wilting yews, stunted cypresses.
A hollow along the left wall harbors
a concrete dais and granite bench,
designed like the marble ones in Roman villas,
where no one sits. The path twists right along the fence
and ends at the other building's steel service door,
which opens only for those paid to enter.

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