Sunday, August 31, 2008

Porch Light

Late summer, early evening bat
picks off no-see-ums
under circling swallows,
once again humidity reminds me
what i have in common with Banderas
is sticky t-shirts and jeans.

I down a bucket of iced hibiscus
and plot pennant races,
eager beaver stars
pop between whispering clouds,
ain't nothing here to hold
til it turns blue,
everythings numbered,
even the days til the stitches
come out of my dog's eye.

The command is to be still
and know which side the Bread of Life
is buttered on. Easier to face
in the face of a breeze, cricket chorus and solo
frog adding harmony to 
folded hands and bending knee.

Porch light plays out the night,
waiting for the prodigal,
robe folded in my lap,
the weight of a ring
turning cool in my palm.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008


The dog days are not
a month to me, unless
it rains, I stash plastic baggies
in my civic duty pockets 
and allow two morning leashes
to pull my shoulder sockets
to the curb.

The still orange sun bedazzles
dew wet tips of fresh mowed green
as a squadron of dragonflies
hums yellow and blue beside us,
the pup following a nose
with time leaps of its own,
the matron content to trot a long,
as long as I follow protocol.

I married into this privilege
of seemly suburban postcardism,
convicted by an Irish movie script,
"if ya cain't love a dog, ya cain't love anything."
For all my choir singing and grace before meals,
it's somehow very tidy
that the depth of my heart is known
by morning romps and brushings
and fresh water in a bowl.