I had an Aunt who entertained a friend called Stella,
The two sat talking up against the warm old house,
not arguing in the April sun.

When ashes fell they worried for their clothes,
blamed the industry a half mile down the road,
my Aunt fetched a sweater for Miss Stella.

When sirens wailed they went to see,
for trouble waits for gossip and goes a long way back.
The house was theirs.

Side by side they sit beneath a blue umbrella,
garbage falling from the sky,
not arguing but peaceful in the April sun.

A man will notice if he passes on the road.