Jack Granath

She on the plastic chair with the sun in her eyes
and a lawnful of squirrels and birds rolled out
and a drink in her hand and a husband at the grill
and two dogs and two cats and their concatenation of clown acts,
she, all sun dress and sandals dangling and golden hair,
and this other man there, wondering
how the hell life worked its way around and wound up
at this particular intersection of a beautiful woman and the sun,
she with her occasional glances
as communicative as any ten minutes of urgent speech,
she with her finch-like interjections,
she with her quick turn of the head,
an instinctive, cosmetic darting at every word
she doesn’t want to hear,
smiling and high, she
waiting for that dinner to be over and done.