For Richard

A woman in striped robes, limpingly shambles, flip-flopping,
    across lengthy lawn towards the time worn street.
Behind her upon a tiled roof crumbling, decaying,
    A mockingbird displays, each song a repeat.
An antique auto, Mercedes Benz, sits in the drive rusting.

Tap, rhythm, feet hitting the pavement, I observe Mr. O’ Shea,
    in hand a hose, a snake of green in motion.
Above dusty clouds float as on the ocean.
Crepe Myrtle, blowzy impressionist blur, fades on West A.
A black lab lifts its’ limb, unaware of Manet, or even Monet.

Charlie Murrey, out the door, and down to the street all alone,
    past purple roses with dry mummy heads.
Robin Red Breast makes a ring ‘round rosies bare as bone,
    pecking the ground as Charlie hums the Dead.
“Most of the time they’re sittin’ and cryin’ at home,” a drone.

I pause sweat upon my brow, at Lancaster and York, all ears
    to shrill cicadas as they harmonize.
Mr. Murrey adjusts glasses untinted, yet he sheds no tears,
    sleepwalking toward a cherry sunrise,
    sucking thumb made bloody by thorn, but no Beauty to hold near.

A lady, Hellenic profile, lifts Venetian blind to look.
Mrs. Delgado fondles her feline,
    as she glances, glimpsing transversely over garden nook,
    beyond the bungalow at the incline.
“ . . . I’m old fashioned,” he replies from the Jag reading a book,

To young Dr. Wilson, as I move, making tracks, missing out,
    Alarming mourning doves on Maple street,
    Murmuring throaty mantras, mucking about the sweet gum sprouts.
Duck a branch, skip over rocks to a beat.
Sticks and stones will break my bones from head to toe if I don’t watch out.

Here, coming down, running down the steet, Diane, my opposite.
Her fleeting feet over leafs left from Autumn.
An aged, mullioned window reflects the sun and splits,
    the fish crow flying into twenty bits.
An ancient Volkswagon Bug is rumbling, spitting, throwing up chum.

Hokusai tree bends in grace, is it Daphne after the chase?
The terrier knows not of her plight and sleeps.
Mugginess is clothing the neighborhood in its’ heavy space.
Down my neck, my back, perspiration creeps.
I labor past a stony owl encased in an orb weavers’ lace.

The clouds have metamorphed to golden fleece.  Sunrise is won,
    And mid morning begun.  Turn the corner,
The myriad ten thousand things, Wan Wu, now on Olive street become one.
On Heaven and Earth there is no mourner.
In this place of endorphic epiphany all that is done.
Sitting upon my porch, limply waving to Mr. Totorro,
    My heart beats fast and strong; my chest rises, falls.
Hearing my breath, faithful Catahoula barks through the window.
The man asleep indoors, wakes, hears her calls.
My Richard, comes to the door and lets me inside. Hello.