The day was, at least, only muggy warm,
pregnant with rain that came only in dawn,
and still it gives quiet maybe-warnings,
maybe-rumbles.
Heavy, soundless yawn.
We looked at new digs today,
cat-pee and crumble-paint,
did not scare us away.
Maybe.
Things are hard to figger,
sometimes. Maybe.
Mama Jean comes in from porch-steps,
motor-purr, solidarity.
Friends arriving, from out of town,
at seven or eight, maybe, nine,
now, ten. Eleven.
Maybe.
I need to paint.
There are paintings, booked,
to be painted. There is a limp, the these-days,
in my stride. Marring my handsome.
Burring my strut-some days.
God in my ear says that time is running away,
and no amount of youthful all-fine,
will rip that from me.
God said it.
Maybe.
Tomorrow, I screw screen-door on.
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