She was a school teacher and he a botanist.
They shared a cottage in New England,
had two therapists, three cats, no dog.
Neighbors passed by as if the house wasn’t there.

Every so often the couple would take turns
setting a fire on their property.
The man liked to let them grow tall,
the woman laid complex brush that burned almost violet.
They collaborated on slick, brick-red masterpieces
that slipped up walls like dyslexic waterfalls.

Another part of this was the dousing:
water was a staple, but not satisfying;
there was tomato juice, milk and blue sports drink;
a liquefied pumpkin in the fall;
and, in the spring, a lawn sprinkler shooting their own mixture
of honey and Budweiser.

The final part of this was the cleanup:
the cleansing, rebuilding and restoration;
letting cats out of crates;
an analysis of how it went.
Never any leftovers or lingering memories.
No complaints.