You want me to write a poem
about what’s outside that door?
Don’t you know if I walk out there
I’ll be on the filthy patio? That
piled out there are the tools
I was too tired to put up on Thursday?
The dog will want me to play
and the trees are budding
and if I don’t pull off the new growth
below the limb level I’ll be out there
this fall with a pruning saw.
There’s nothing but weeds there
and it spattered rain today.
Not enough to wet a twig
but enough to make the dog’s feet
and mine bring in the wet.
You want me to go outside?
To feel the peace?
There’s no peace outside
or in. Because there’s none
in me.
