By Philip White
One more hot August night.
I sit
on the barred balcony
in a wicker lawn chair
listening to what little life
is left moving
in the heavy air. Evening’s
final color bleeds
through the birch’s
flickering cut-leaf lace. My back
to the empty
house, my face to the agonized
west, to what
you once so unpoetically
termed your side of town,
I’m aware
of the stain of light
trickling across my face
and arms, across the white clapboards
behind me.
When that light is dead,
and these birch fronds dangle
absolutely motionless
in the tepid air, I
will cradle my guitar in my arms,
sit back, and begin
to stroke old songs, softly,
to myself.
