Summer Debris
Daniel Ford
This afternoon is cool
for July. In its stillness,
the house says nothing to me.
Sawdust and matchsticks
gather on the scrap of lawn
I rent. Flowerless, it browns
slowly, despite the broken heat.
Two weeks late, I ponder
leaving something – a tie, cologne -
at my father’s grave.
But the notion collapses
under its own mock gravity
The ties hang in my closet,
the Clubman sits on my corner
of the bathroom sink.
