a bit of gardening

perfectly tuned

here in green walking shorts
driving the pitchfork deep in
under the
roots

I then pry the fork
back
up
dislodging this mean
green and yellow
weed

a mass of roots
still gripping chunks of
earth


this gardening is something to
do:    the racetrack is closed
today

my car sits in the
garage
as the neighbor boy plays
with a
basketball
bouncing it
then looping it
through the
hoop

Jesus, I think, he probably
has many
decades to
live.

I kick the weed to one
side, lean on the
pitchfork:   all the waiting’s
not
much:    just part of the
space between
agonies.

a neighbor
across the street
waves.

I wave
back

–he’s a good old
boy

I am
too

we are the
weary
signalling through
time–those mountains to
the north–as
the space
closes.