Let’s us stop by that party tent, the one being
arranged down by the shoreline, its wooden  
spikes splitting the summer grass grown by
gardeners who live in tiny, borrowed houses
and do not expect recognition or praise after
repairing the already old clippers for
one more season of topiary clipping.

Can you hear the singing waves laughing as
the shells of crustaceans,
living fine lives yesterday, as
lobster, crab, and shrimp are tossed into
scrap bins and compost piles without worry?  

We will say,’ excuse me, our dog is lost,’ and pretend
to understand the long-weekend appeal of  
lounging in the waiting garden chairs, their woven  
rest pressing into pale flesh exposed by our lifted slips.
With manicured daydreams freshly stained by marigold juice,
we can wave polite farewells to another season
of party-hopping hellos.

-In response to Garden Chairs (Barcelona, 1929), a photograph by Josef Albers, on display in the Guggenheim Museum’s digital collection.