In a summertime kitchen,
The hissing whisper of an old woman’s gossip
Under the dings of ceramic, cast iron clangs and
The thwaps of the back screen door chasing kids
With freshly picked great-grandfather tomatoes.
Soon, the afternoon wind will pick up,
Gradually pushing the cigar men inside
From their circle of backyard chairs.
Then, the mocking birds will come
Eating the last of June’s apricots,
Sweet and perfect.