I sit in the wake of a day well spent
Bridging two forest green lawn chairs
With my feet, my bare toes strumming
The holes in the back like a bluesman.
Absent-mindedly parsing thoughts between
The rough hewn strings, above me an
Indecisive sky blows blue then grey then
Blue again while I count the hibiscus blossoms
Which August has already claimed.
I wonder if flowers go to Heaven and –
If so – is it the only afterlife where it rains
Long and regularly with burst of intense sun.
I note the still impeccable state of the red bird
Feeder on the worn white brick wall and
Worry that the neighborhood fowl consider
It a one-star establishment in their travel guides,
No bath, slow room service and only me for
Light entertainment apart from you, opening the
Garden door to ask what I’m doing out here
To which “writing” is my only reply.