in this summer of collection
cut our loss
like oily grasses
strangling in the morning glory

unblemished
in sort of a no-harm-no-foul
rescue from sentiment

breathe deep
this stale air of inconvenience
off white and starched
like hospital linen

wipe your hands
and observe the yellow tape
left by those internal authorities

at least your heart
stuck its head out the window
racing the devil away from
the prim Connecticut byways

a nervous whistle
replaces the syrupy harp
it’s getting on fall soon

who will notice that one more line
wizened into this smile
thin lips that only speak now
from distance grown

© Tom Watters 9/9/08