Poem 5, June 5              

Hot, humid Saturday  

For two hours yesterday,
I cleaned the gutter
in front of your house.  

You were not in the house.
I cannot begin to say
how unpleasant the day was.  

How unbearably hot it was,
& miserable in every way,
me scooping decaying organic loam  

like human waste from an outhouse.
How I would have traded the job for a fish gutter’s
chore in those moments, but when a wren  

flew from your hanging flowerpot
& scolded me, I smiled a smile
meant only for me.  

When a red wasp darted at me,
I did not think. I let my rile
control my action, my swat,  

missed;
it did not.