The sun crawls across the sky.
So slow, I think it must fall to earth.

The dogs are off chasing raccoons,
barking through the corn.

No one can do enough for the poor.
Capitalism’s ethos refuses to pay more.

Not you. You have a six pack of Blue Ribbon
and your spot in the ravine

sandwiched between two blackberry bushes
where you wedged a junkyard bucket seat.

Secluded away from my teasing
you read your trashy romance novels.

I know because, from the hayloft
retrieving bales after the leaves fell,

I spotted the red cloth
you tied around a slender tree.

It once was your 49ers t-shirt.
Well. That red, if it was not.

The sun speeds up a bit
and pulls the wind up a notch.

I spy your 49ers shirt from the porch
when the wind flutters it like a flag.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

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