(for Robert Gordon, with thanks)

How many people can say they
walked out on their front porches
midday on a mid-September Sunday

to find two zombie/skeleton
sculptures propped up like ghoulish
Jesuses on survey-stake crosses?

Not many, I’ll wager, unless like me,
they’re lucky enough to know
the eccentric artist who lives

down H Street, an unconventional
Puck who drops by unannounced
and stealthily leaves on my porch

treasures assembled from
all manner of recycled bits
that others might call trash.

One zombie’s white face appears
to have entered the world as a
cardboard shoe insert, the other

a thick rectangular block of a gift
box painted a sickly chartreuse,
complete with Frankenstein-style

scar and, atop his ribs, a bright
red heart. I had no idea that I
needed zombies today (though,

apparently, Robert did),
but they make me smile, shake
my head in amazement at this

man’s creativity, his offbeat
genius in crafting art from some
of the most disposable stuff

that the rest of us mortal fools
so thoughtlessly,
so short-sightedly

throw away.