is that cranky old man
brandishing his cliched cane
his curse-blasting ambience                                     
suspendered pants riding his ribs
hair a white brushfire
yammering over his precious lawn                                          
when all you want to do                      
is lie on the healing green
in the quixotic rain
swoon the hymning birds                         
and let your bones soak
sweet into the deep earth                                                 

                                                        For that rainy part of Pat Owen