A pack had moved in after picking the place Up for cheap In a sheriff’s sale. Their addled plan was to rehab, then flip it. A scheme that fell to pieces once the meth dried up and Their meager talent in the trades became obvious. The best of them was an agreeable mutt named Doobie who grew fond, not so much of me, but of the kitchen scraps that found their way over the fence. Over time, he got some of the best cuts as he needed them more than I did. Jamie, still in boots and slicker commiserated over a coffee in the yard once the fire was out. Judged it a total loss. It was that before the fire I told him, and sure He’d take a shot of Crown in the coffee. He pointed out that they had raised pretty decent kale But who couldn’t do that? Around the corner of the collapsed porch Entwined in the fence, were the last red tomatoes of the season, Most gone brown now under weeks of frosts, The hard green ones will stay that way over the winter. Stillborn. Come too late.