toss this out the back, she says
a bowl heavy with uneaten fruit
accompanies me across the deck,
wet still from afternoon rain,
in night air thick with June heat
bugs glom to the lit railing, and
when the green and red wedges fly
their arcs take on a Christmasy glow
and I think that’s a world away, but
here we are at the halfway mark
in the year, and I think
a year is short, in reality (except last year)
not like in our minds, where
time slows it motion, where
it meanders across our continuum
and I think, back to younger days,
waste not, want not, they said, but
here I am at the half century mark,
why waste time eating bad watermelon
when our Christmas time’s a coming