Fractured by obligation, the diaspora of SUVs
bears to uncertain destinations
to tend unknowable brains
while the sun maintains transparence.
The maddest of poets lives in the squarest of houses,
presides like some rooftop vagabond
as the children squeal "Malatesta"
in long shadows of the lawn.
"Summertime" by Abbey Lincoln plays
at the neighborhood hot dog stand.
Birds above the trees are crying.
Life is for me, and me alone.