The screen door,
Unheard over years.
It still signals flies,
kids chasing kids,
And mockingbird songs
In fig tree shade.
Summer’s paradise and ease with just that:
Suppertime fly on sliced red tomato
Red onion avoided.
Chores, wanderings, and a boring anxiety
All screened in nicely,
with a pantry full of secrets,
And secret pantries,
To fill in the gaps between claps.
The movement: her book title words,
Sentences concealing poems,
Complete and tidy,
All wrapped in a pause,
Searching for one more verse,
Lines of freedom etched across
Long marks on a working floor.
Yet, her life, in minutes, days or odd moments
Could hang up on the tiniest things,
And go spinning neatly out of control,
Clappety-clap goes the thin wood frame,
Rickety against the unshakable,
While the pantry door sits open:
There is work to be done now.