poem

 On Call

Squirrels dart surreptitiously

Across the back lawn

Like surgical interns 

My grass is a cancer

Stealing vertical spaces.

It keeps growing and growing

Wasps and yellow jackets swoop

Like suture needles sewing

Quilts of marigolds

The rain is excisional debridement

Washing away the dusty remains

Of another wasted afternoon.

The children on the swing set

Are also patients.

Soon I’ll have to make rounds.

The woman sitting in the kitchen 

Had an appointment an hour ago.

She continues to wait patiently.

7/26/26