The Retort

That white barn used to be brown, then red.
Dad says ol’ Phil Jackson (pre-NBA)
used to play ball up there in the loft.
I took a gang of girls up once
and we pretended that murdered teacher
from the country school across the road
was still there, somewhere, behind the beams.
It doesn’t feel safe there 100 yards from
the modern metal shop, but more faded than
the barn are the years spent trying to trace
the presence of workers from the past.
There by the bunkhouse (no longer there).
There by the hitching post (no longer used).
There by grandma’s raspberries.
There.