By Michael Tieg
I’m glad to stay here
where there are people, things, doors,
to let the radio leak outside
where it’s late and a woman
walks past I’ll never know,
but she is singing
or almost singing.
It’s the end of summer
and ever species of toy
still litters the lawn.
Tomorrow gives off its clump of smoke.
Her voice sounds sober
like a house someone died in
or keeps on dying in,
here, then not and back again.
Outside the lawn chairs
hold a day old conversation.
I hung my shirt
on the nail
and there’s a bowl of flowers
blue as a holiday.