I imagine the worms are close to the surface,
with the rain last night.
Tulips are straining awake,
having waited for the greening.
A seemingly quiet neighborhood teems with Sunday morning.

Next door, the springing crop of dogs induced
racing lines of short-legged, patchwork puppies
wearing down a racetrack 'round the fence line,
Wearing down the house-dog posting pickets,
saluting tripod style, in territorial nervousness.
The energy next door to much for a grey muzzle.

My muzzle, graying too, faces stubble,
or stubbles faces, out of Sunday sloth.
The eggs haven't snapped in grease,
the peace is still, the still is peace
amid the house as I elude.

I wish my robe was flannel, plaid.
Then I could write as stuffy, old, and sour.
Or I could write a hangover,
having spent the night in sin,
but,
but then I never had a taste for beer,
or Gilbert's nasty gin.

It's too wet for lawnmower’s roar.
I still elude.

The guitar's face is warm to me,
but her voice would break the peace,
no matter how my fingers yearn,
and itch and twitch the song,
the song that vibrates in my peace.
I must elude.

08/11/2008

Posted on 08/12/2008
Copyright © 2024 Timothy Somers