Take a porch with a girl on it playing the cello,
some weeds that need to be yanked up
next to the Japanese maple. Maybe
she has a crush on her landlord, sexy in spite
of the nervous tic that scares people off.
In August the heat can get wicked,
the sidewalk littered with empty nips.
Bach isn’t right for this neighborhood. Don’t listen
too hard. Think instead of a female cardinal’s never-
bright-enough red, how she flies her best anyway.
