There is a feathered June Friday night
postcard, of the evening, from the evening.
Dear Astrid, dear Sabrina, dear David,
Enjoy me in your noisy Ford Focus
as it whirrs over the swamps & lakes
between Boston & Hartford.
Enjoy the catalpa blooms that fall
on the heads of pedestrians.
You saw all week the pig
& cow side of things,
those hot summer city
days that are really tan-lines
on man-boobs in rural semi-tropic
overalls under grapevines
in driveways. In ancient Rome,
there’s too much
sauce to cover meat gone bad.
Breathe in this wetland flush
of state flower bushes.
My cabins hide behind
the peeling billboards.
Love, the Evening.
