As if the moon is lifting
The earth's crust and sifting
For its own cold bones
He rolls in dark sleep
Mind relentlessly replaying
The day, sifting in his way
For why he's alone
Sun had warmed his arms
Sweat sticking shirt to skin
As he weeded, staked, trimmed
Raking leaves like stones
Hearing sprinklers hiss
He breathed rotting fruit stench
As along the lawns shady edge
Bush turkeys roamed
Gobbling and cawing
Water and dirt through his fingers
Sifting again for what lingers
Shifting aim of the hose
Facades of houses
Stood along the street in rows
Secrets behind doors and windows
Lives lived unknown
As he rode by on the mower
Shaving bald the nature strip
No secrets for the grass to keep
Each blade lying prone
A lady offered lemonade
Seeking advice about her frangipani
He handed her glass back empty
She slid back to her home
No place for him here
Not among the living whose blood
Pulses with happiness and love
His sap all but gone
Thunder again, insistent and deep
Tonight the moon will not sleep.
© shaun patrick green 2012
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