[[ A description of a real morning but with the observer transformed from a groggy parent eating toast into a bit of a voyeuristic, lecherous naturalist. ]]
Even the cat conspires,
the cat and Captain Underpants,
to douse my dream,
so I sit up, Nosferatu
on a hinge. Sunday morning
early, when a decent man
would sleep, is full of sound.
Outside the open window
long bare legs are
flexing as she sways,
her auburn hair flows down
her back in early sun,
her head is tilted to his,
her eyes are in his eyes,
their tongues are tasting
one last clinking beer.
They have so much to say
but cannot keep their mouths
apart for Jesus going on an hour,
and her peculiar rocking on
her long bare legs as if
she sways to unheard music
or as if -- they look around,
he finds an opening in the
wire fence around the lot
behind them and she crouches
through alone.
He stands and smokes and looks
the other way while she
wades through tall grass and yarrow,
indigenous to these parts,
to squat and disappear and
bare her bountiful cheeks
to all the creatures of the field,
then reemerges.
They toss their bottles in the grass
and walk to the first bus
before a panther falls from a tree.
