by Jenny Browne
Today comes on like a commercial
listing possible side effects
of living; the shape I’m in,
fallen leaves echoed in concrete. No wind
but even the deserted bird feeder lists
and shudders, the sun hot
as Lucinda Williams growling
I changed the locks
as I drive farther south, past the tangle
of lawn mowers chained together
outside the pawn shop. One cloud raises
her hand like she might have something
useful to add before disappearing
back into whatever blue does
when not busy being one of my lazier
metaphors for quiet despair.
Look, I’m just trying to say
today I am so tired
of looking up, tired even of sky
when I pass the boy setting his bike down
carefully on the funeral home’s dead lawn
before opening the garden hose into his mouth
holding it over his head then, curls thick
as seaweed, face bronzed sudden
into statue, but laughing
and I’m laughing then too with such pure what
I am not going to compare it with anything for once
but I swear I heard him thinking I love you
the water thinking back, I love me too.