A birdsong, earlier than before
vitamins downed with lemon water
one last look, long in the mirror
I’m not vain, I say, I swear.
A dead moth crushed on the windowsill
I’ll grab him later, the silent fellow.
Take the garbage, on my way
Yes Dear, I will, of course.

I note it’s time to tend the pool
to clear and drain and cleanse and scrub
so summer tears will flow
from the eyes of the local kids,
–is it too much chlorine,
or being told to come in?
To stay and chase the fading light,
I know, you poor young souls, I know.

The front screen slams and the rust speaks
while the porch sags and chips its paint.
Later, always later, the shame
This used to be a decent place.

Today the magpies let me pass
their eyes upon my sunburned neck
tense with ancient habits,
ancient appetites to tame,
I know, poor fellows, I know well the same.

I drop a letter in the post
it will get there in due time,
I suppose.

A bat caught in the telephone wires
that’s three this week, by my count,
Poor things, I shake my head, poor things.

Paper or plastic.
Plastic or glass.
Cash or credit.
Feast or Famine.

A box of roach baits from the store?
Yes dear, I will, of course.


Slightly winded, you lean
your bike against the fence.
No sudden gestures,
not today.
You lift your eyes, slow like,
across the sky in one deep gaze.

Whatever thoughts you had
have abandoned you for less.


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