Archive | August 21, 2009

In Working Order

The dog needs to go out,
the lawn mowed and edged.
Somehow he puts on his socks,
feeds the kids and steps into the yard.

I hear the scrapping of his rake,
the rhythm of his work,
the continuality of life
mingling with the smell of gas.

Yet I saw his wife’s face
a few months ago at their door,
her hair shorn brittle like dying grass.
The cancer would not go out.

The dog, now insistent, barking again
demanding its needs be met.
The neighbor’s fence is not tall enough
and I just want to hear him scream.