Beer on ice and barefoot
We sit and sip the green tea cups
and watch my bare bottomed son
chase the chickens.
You gently toe them
when they peck at you,
then stroke their backs as they move on.
We pick a dinner plate dahlia
and you preen the garden
as if the vines and leaves and lushessness of late august
were part of your own plumage.
We observe the newly cleared patio,
the broken picnic table,
jars and bowls and vessels
collecting murky water in the yard.
There seems to be no container to hold the life here.
It overflows like our words,
tumbling out in a hurry to be heard
and finally understood.
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Ed: Sara Crolick
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