My basement is

festooned with cobwebs.

The cat sleeps,

a circle on the dryer.

Wood chips on the floor.

I feed the furnace

I remember those wild,

cold nights picking

tomatoes. Stapling

plastic with freezing fingers

to protect the dogs

on their hay filled porch.

One Rose of Sharon
alone across the yard.
Lost in the wilderness
green.

 

3 AM

The fan moves the hot air.
A prick of light
shows through the
shade.
He groans.  I turn
over, fumble for
my notebook and
write.

Writing a poem
about a lavender
hibiscus
should be
easy. Distant
thunder.  Neighbor’s
dogs sound like
they caught
someone.  Catch
me a poem.

What if the fairies
at the bottom of
the garden look
like the blue demon and
an overreaching
evil is in charge?

 

The grey cat walks
down the brick path
outside the windows.
Once during breakfast,
again now.  Grey
on grey stripes.

The car drives up.
Copies to make.  The
cat disappears into
the hibiscus.

Annie

A laundress in 1870
Did she heat the
heavy irons
on a wood stove,
press the stiff,
white sheets
and shirts, the
colorful dresses to
a wonderful smoothness?