Homey treats, knick-knacks arrayed
in the shade.                      
                         Fine, but where are
vegetables I expect to see growing
in plastic pots on tables in the patio?  

The tables are there, but almost bare.
There’s only morning sun at a slant,
a squinty light I’ve seen in dreams &
childhood.                  
                     Fine, but I strike a match
and demand an accounting, lest I be
judged.             

What I call a match glints like a knife
held upright as an obelisk in the dark.
I’ll notice this yesterday or tomorrow.