in the scheme of things

I fit in
like the massive, irregular block
of concrete with the old iron pole
jutting up from it, who knows

what it was for
or going to be for, it is off

to one side, in the unmown grass
and dandelions, away
from the gathering when it was
noticed.

As the cookout progresses, people drift over
there, to talk with each other, sat
on the bare concrete, taking their shoes off,
letting their toes swim in the weeds
and wildflowers. At one point

somebody looks at the old hollow iron pole
gestures to it

asks "What was this?

Was it going to be part
of a building or something
?"

But
you always see those poles
cut in half, or rusted, jutting out
of big concrete blocks of an irregular,
congealed-oatmeal shape and nobody
seems to have a ready-made explanation
for them.

as to what they were. Or were going to be,

So yes. That is my place. mysterious,
a bit off to the side, somewhat useful
as a conversation piece, perhaps
Seemingly desolate

and abandoned, yet somehow,
homey.
Welcoming, nonjudgmental.

Anyone who has wished can sit on my verge
and gesture wonderingly at my pole! Metaphorically,
I mean.

Yet ultimately:
what was I? Was I part of a building, or
something?

Was I going to be?