-the man of certain means looks out the window-

on this morning, the 23rd of May

which will not return tomorrow

nor will it reemerge a year from now

wearing the false face of today, rather,

will be a new day, its own day, a day which will claim

its singular identity, I find myself

guzzling refreshing cranberry juice from the fridge

straight from the bottle's neck, pressing

the green button on the coffee maker, drizzling

multi-colored fish-shaped pellets

into the bowl reserved for Cleo the cat,

then opening the blinds to piercing sunlight.

eye-slapping lawns of green grass lay the grounds

and beyond the mossy stone wall a lawnmower rattles

the atmosphere, gasoline-powered, and the animals retreat.

on the road, the old jogger is hunch-backed, breathing with effort,

drenched in sweat but determined to his bones.

maybe he'll reach the southward banks
where the river ends and the bay begins, maybe not.

bearing witness to the the old-timer's run to the water

are me at the window, and one dead squirrel,

its petrified legs spread to paradise, nestled in its funeral
pyre of grass, road-side at the trunk of the sugar maple.

I should scoop it up as soon as the old jogger is out of sight,

and toss it into the tangle of wild-berry brush across the street,

but I don't, and I'm left to wonder what blessings
next year's 23rd of May will bring to a window

facing the only images it will ever know of its world.

Swansea