Late September by Ted Kooser
Behind each garage a ladder
sleeps in the leaves, its hands
folded across its lean belly.
There are hundreds of them
in each town, and more
sleeping by haystacks and barns
out in the country - tough old
day laborers, seasoned and wheezy,
drunk on the weather,
sleeping outside with the crickets.
from Flying at Night: Poems 1965-1985
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