the day after the boy turned 8

those blades of grass
are going to brown
because we've seen no rain
for weeks

and the kitten
taken too early
from her mother
stinks from not cleaning herself

and the cars on the
street rattle over scabs
of dirt left
by the construction company

and the laundry
remains un-kept-up
in balls and in piles
in baskets and on floors

and something remains
left to be construed
in the way people
talk to each other

and the poet
palms his cup of coffee
and puts pen to page
in a scowl

and the pole beans
and the tomato plants
and the carrots
and the lettuce

thirst to the root
beneath the circling hawk
who stole two chickens
and a turkey

and the two-year-old
asks for milk in her
cooing mew no thirst
but comfort-craving

it is june 27
a monday morning
the day after the boy
turned 8

and the hours set
to the springs of a watch
wound by the tips
of a boy's fingers