a poem sitting on a bench
at the porch
of the house she bought
with her husband,
who plays the sax inside
while her six year old dog
howls with him
singing
awooo awooo
and she doesn't frown,
only tilts her head to the side
to listen closely to the cicadas
proclaiming the beginning of summer;
her eyes try to adjust to the lack of light
now in the twilight
her daughter opens the front door and
turns on the light for her,
so she smiles,
brushes a fly off her lap
and then turns the page.
the town smells like jasmines
and wet grass,
something so comforting
she wonders
if anyone would ever think
of writing a book about it.