Tuesday, November 13, 2020
I plant the black camp chair firm
in the back yard grass just
as the sun and I tip
our hats good evening to this,
the season’s last warm day.
From 70s, 60s now and falling fast,
fall’s full fragrances mingling with the mix tape of neighbors’ bustling,
whispering to me that this is indeed a great, shared secret.
A lawn mower over yonder pushed from front to back,
growling louder and receding,
like the wave of a season’s coming and going….
Neighbor kids squealing just beyond the reach of each other’s tag,
the barking dog so wanting to break free from its leash to join this,
its favorite game in the world ….
The pork chop dinner through the kitchen’s open screened window wafting,
soon summoning the congregation ….
The wrist-revving motorcycle, racing up the street
chasing the last of the jacketless daylight.
50s now, and falling fast,
I rise from my chair and lay down,
surrendering so the grass can pillow my head,
and draw in the deep breath of …
the neighbor’s finished mow,
pork chops on the table,
the fallen leaves scenting the air and promising
a Last. Satisfying. Crackle. Crunch.
When I recluctantly stand back up,
fold the black camp chair, plant it ‘neath the porch,
and shut the back door behind me, turning the lock.
The leashed dog still barking, wanting to play.