clot up the curb, catch
on spider strands, hang on
like inchworms. Yellow
dusts the chairs, the porch
I finally hose down; I take
the winter cat shelters out back
and drench them, leave them
to dry in the sun.
Pollen, bird dung, leaves, dried twigs—
too bad drifts of belly fat
can’t be hosed away so easily.
In the hospital, the staff
work round-the-clock, an endless
cycle of cleaning—blood, urine,
snot, chemicals, my friend’s blood
whooshing through dialysis machines.
How quickly things change:
amid lavender’s buzz and bloom
redbud’s fuchsia petals lost to dust,
cardioid leaves unfolding to cast
the season’s shadows.