there's a pair of
chopsticks i'd wanted to
order/for a while,
(made from old recycled
baseball bats y'know.
japanese little league teams)
so i drive in to the library
[they have free/fast wireless]
& connect.
shop around a coupla sites to
find the cheapest price.
& amidst the crying of infants..
the beeps of **** being checked out...
i'm all done & thinking
of rice.

out sweating under the
august sun
i realize the days/are getting colder,
--shorter.
shadows of the geese flyin' south
get longer every day.

but the apples are reddening!
and the water's not yet
too cold,
(still a few girls/down for late-night dips)
nor are the leaves the orange brown of trampled autumn,
and patty d & i still go for tours in the civic
blowin' smokes out in LA park.
---so things aren't really so terrible.

the beach here is nicest
on the weekends
by sunday, after supper.
the crowds are not crowds,
nor are the remnants of them
so awful, so loud, sweaty
--and you can hear the waves properly!
there are just a few last cottagers
clinging to the sand
and a coupla locals feet in the surf
sippin' beers in the days'
last dying sunbeams.

you know,
not all poetry has to be about
love, your sad heart, entwined destinies
or how much you miss that boy
or girl.
if you stop thinking about all that;
say "**** it"
and let the words come to you
you might be awfully pleased
at the simple rawness of
what comes out.

down the lane the summer homes all yawn,
open & airing out,
depositing mothballs, musty deck chairs/on the lawn

strolling i see all last year's forgotten furniture
waiting
on the roadside, dust covered.
here a couch groans out to me:
"such a life!
reeking of mildew,
springs worn from children jumping on the weekends
--and the old man couldn't stop them.
too busy slamming drinks on the porch!"

i very nearly weep,
"poor tired old thing!"
for it is a hard ride to be a couch.