Mrs. Ajo planted these:
single, utterly durable, red.
Mr. Ajo used to walk up the street
from the bay with a bucket of clams

and a cigarette fixed in his mouth
as though he’d been born
with these accessories.
They’re gone now.

The poppies, in June, forthright,
like a single stripe of the flag,
all along one side of their closed-up
house: insistent, unqualified color,

and a hundred furred green
buds lift, on their bowed necks,
preparing a further outcry.
When I say I hate time, Paul says

how else could we find depth
of character, or grow souls?
Of course he’s right,
but I can’t help thinking

the Ajos wouldn’t vote
for the mottled, complexified
shades favored by the years;
they liked this intransigent red,

they wanted it plain
and dependable, noisy.
Even Mr. Ajo, who once looked
at my garden in full bloom,

all old roses and peonies,
and said, talking around his cigarette,
Lot of money in that