Backyard thoughts

Night time.

It’s late

or very early.

Forgotten shirts hang,

arms down,

dampening again.

Katydid

or katydidn’t.

The first cat I ever loved

is buried under that gray stone.

Who can speak of love

at a time like this?

Black night

or city fire

reflected on the underside

of scattered clouds.

All of you

who I have loved

or who have touched me

are with me here

or I am alone.

I crush my dampening shirts

in my arms.