March 19, 2024

after the trimmers left

I returned to the matter of clearing the breakfast table, 
wiping the tawny ring where the bottom of a coffee mug had been, 
checking the calendar for the vet appointment and the oil change. 
It might have gone on like that if I hadn’t glanced outside where the snarl 
of upper branches had been, so I could see, uninterrupted, across the street, 
where my neighbor had placed a rocking chair on her front porch. Sunlight 
haloed the back slats, and that warmth was palpable, even from here. 
For a moment I forgot the plate, the spill, the list of the still-to-be-dones,
an an untangled emptiness filled me like soap bubbles. I made a wand 
of my fist, and blew.