Supervision

It’s my son’s primary
fixation to awake
on Friday mornings,
toddle out to the front
porch, and supervise
the landscapers
two houses down
undertaking
their weekly work.
Serving as his project manager,
of sorts,
I join him with coffee
and a notebook.
However, Gus is away
this morning
in late August,
so I watch on
in his stead.
One man, paunchy
and goateed, trails
the curb with a
trimmer as the
other guy is unseen,
probably having a field day 
on a riding mower
behind the house.
The cicadas and
birds seem to be engaged
in an invisible socratic
discussion
as a newborn breeze
travels through the trees.
I’m too lucky for mornings like these
that unfold like eternity.

When Gus was less
than a year old, I recall
pushing him in a stroller
in an orange evening
around this time of year.
We were scaling the hill
towards home
and saw the trimmer guy
by the trailer
lighting a cigarette
as he poured gasoline
into a leafblower.
This footsie with oblivion
was a beautiful
and brazen moment,
much like the sun presently
ascending in the blank page sky,
putting a spotlight
on all of us.

hang/dog

Sluggish start
to this third-act
Saturday. Last
night I stayed up
late (early?) with Barry
and Hank — we
dissected a twelve-
pack. Now I’m alone.
A unneutered preteen breeze
loiters around the trees
this morning.
The cul-de-sac
could use some
moisturizer.

Elsie is at my feet.
Her stomach sounds
like a sick-day
trash compactor.
Yesterday she didn’t
eat her dinner. She’s ten,
an old girl, was old
even when we moved in
two years ago. I remember
our first week in this house
we saw a dog in the neighbor’s
yard, loose. I opened the front
door to get a better look. Elsie,
our senseless sentinel, bolted out.
Barking like mad, she charged
across the street and spooked away
the derelict dog. It was a lovely
housewarming gift.

Post-nap song and dance

My son wakes from
his afternoon nap
in his cocoon of a
room, white noise
paired with a drilling
rain outside. The blinds
are drawn. Usually, I’ll
open them and bring
him to the window, but
for now I simply scoop
him up from his crib —
he requests his bunny
and bear stuffies —
and paddle out into
the liminal hallway, absent
of light, time, movement.
(I wonder how much of my
life I’ve spent in spaces like
these without knowing it.)
We make our way to the living
room, and another request
is made, just one word:
“Dinosaur.”
We u-turn back into his room
and grab the cherished green
stuffy, then I make my evergreen
offer: “Want to go out on
the porch?” Outside, sitting
in splintered wicker chairs, the rain spritzes
my shins as the boy nibbles on a
grain bar underneath a quilt, surrounded
by his soft smiling friends. Thunder
grumbles overhead like an upset stomach.
The downpour covers mailboxes, hydrangeas,
powerlines. Nothing is new here,
but we are speechless, as we should be.

Four short untitled poems

It seems death is a door
you go behind. No one
follows you in and you
never come out.

+++

Treetops are the closest
thing I’ve seen
and known
to be God.

+++

cut a look
rip a fart
crack a smile

+++

Dog’s barking
feels political
but that noise
has nothing to
do with me.