Sometimes, Arnold mows his lawn at a high cut, say
in autumn before the first frost or summer when
rainless weeks desiccate the fear of censure.
Some hot mornings, when cicadas sing
their augury of a stifling afternoon,
Kate eats ice cream and lets herself hate dogs.
Weekends, from controlled suburban banks of blue
lakefront, Donna's teenager launches his raft
to escape the bookless kids, the team players.
Who can pledge allegiance every day?
Who doesn't envy animals that forage to live
in the untrained woods, without a helmet?
fiction poetry "fact" photography