Poets - Billy Collins continued

The Golden Years

All I do these drawn-out days

 is sit in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge

 where there are no pheasants to be seen

 and last time I looked, no ridge.

  I could drive over to Quail Falls

 and spend the day there playing bridge,

 but the lack of a falls and the absence of quail

 would only remind me of Pheasant Ridge. 

 I know a widow at Fox Run

 and another with a condo at Smokey Ledge.

 One of them smokes, and neither can run,

 so I’ll stick to the pledge I made to Midge.

 Who frightened the fox and bulldozed the ledge?

 I ask in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge.