First thing in the morning

I pick up the dog’s fresh

turd in the sun.

My legs brush knee-high

weeds, warm and green

I am wearing nothing

but flip flops and a night 

shirt, striped, color: 

raspberry and lemon sorbet.

Across the fence I hear neighbors 

clinking with their plates, briefly

sweetest life and time roll back

to the golden days when father

packed the tent, then us, then 

we were underway.