The Indian summer afternoon was bleeding out
On its flat earth stretcher
With no hope of resuscitation
With no priest for last rites
And something about that play of light
Slanting through yellowing leaves
Made me want to ouija board my grandmother
For folksy instructions on canning
On preserving the last of the season’s okra
Field peas and squash and peppers
But my workmate was before me
Swirling her worries around inside a coffee cup
So I found myself listening to
But not really hearing whatever it was she sang
It sounded like verse/chorus/algorithm
It changed keys into a bee’s drone
It slow-faded to some commercial break
For new cars and trucks with no money down
Then the weather report and its magical realism
More of the same more of the same
