Those kids will break
that trampoline
or an arm; Margot’s
roses are coming
along strong; the
Fernandez are
rowing again—about
what?; and Bob’s vintage
Mustang has had so
many spare parts it’s
barely old but still
he tinkers as she
kneels here naked in
the window, aware
anyone could see her
if they weren’t so
preoccupied, just
looked up, as hands
tilt her hips just so
and a
blunt tool expels the air from her lungs
in a fine mist on the
windowpane
obscuring her from
prying eyes.
(Image used by kind permission of
Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The
poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)
