The Prelude to All of This

I have three hours a week, give or take a few years, to lean back on the stiff leather recliner and stare out the window at the approaching fall. It is Florida and the oaks’ leaves rust only slightly at the corners, drop to the ground halfheartedly, go through the motions of autumn, the angled

Loja, Ecuador The dogs are loose as tongues, slinking along the edge of houses, down the sidewalks, into the park’s hedges where they piss their rumors, tail-high. The dogs wail at the tuneful song the propane trucks play, selling gas like ice cream along the streets. The dogs bark, sometimes, wagging, message mutt-mixed. They lie,

Having eyes, I could not resist climbing to the highest
branch and plucking the last of September’s apples. Put it
in the fruit basket and, at ten in the morning, place the basket
on the garden table. You bring the coffee and the croissant