Finally, the week when the world
waits under the green gauze
of pollen. Remember you and me
clumping up like bees and strawberries?
Now I swat at the former to protect
the boys while they smear their faces
with the latter. Now some bourbon, no ice.
Please stay with me on this porch
as the sun sets in our eyes, sinks
below the neighbor’s roofline across
Mendenhall where he’s out on his swing—
the department chair who no longer
remembers his dog’s name, his wife
flickering at the kitchen window. He nods
toward us. The only sky he sees is the dark
that’s coming—A world of trouble
is what you told the boys to expect
if they left their beds to follow us out here.