Alexander the cat rolls
in the grass,
feet up in the air,
then pauses to stare at me,
until he seems to realize
I am telling his tale
and runs away.

A motorcyclist makes a u-turn
in the street,
the last stragglers speed past
on their way to work.
After a terribly long winter
the sun begins to burn my arm,
but still I won’t go in.
I sit in the pink chair
and watch the pine’s shadow
on the damp ground,
the few surviving daisies
from last year’s failed crop
of wildflowers.
Wild things want to choose
where they’ll grow, I am told.
I know that’s how I am,
but still I want nature
to bend to my intentions,
despite the decades that
I’ve resisted hers.
I hear morning birds
I cannot name, city trucks
and the grind of heavy equipment,
the neighbor’s radio
playing in her truck.