ode to home

this acre is a melancholy
color of the sea

a few cymbals from the bedroom window come crashing onto the lawn
that has yet to be mowed by the same one singing with his hands and two sticks

the air conditioner, humming
the fan playing in the key of a

white lilies standing tall behind the ones that are croutching, ready to end
birdbath, empty
after noon.

a lite green
id say

my father bent over the computer
his socks shucked by the door
postman uniform still buttoned on his frame
wrinkled elbow swung across the counter

a bird flutters by the window.

the stoic tree still stands
the one that used to keep me awake at night telling me stories of how it might
fall
on me while I am asleep

wine glasses tucked away in the china cupboard
gray couches slumping in the living room waiting for tired bodies

hard-wood floors waiting to be swept
chimes swinging
slowly like a childs legs
waiting

empty porchswing
empty rocking chair

this acre is a melancholy color of the sea