Manifest Destiny

The city is always closing in.

We sit on our porches

(this year brick, last year wood)

and contemplate the shadows

of lines and fences.

Ours is no marriage of convenience.

In spite of ourselves, some glow prevails

thought outright elation is forbidden.

The folks down the street just called the police.

Kentucky survivals played on a dulcimer

drift quietly down this windless street,

the rose in a glass since the vase is packed.

The cat howls, a long refrain,

Moooooving on.

I’m tired of making every event an adventure.

I should have been a slug slithering across

the floors of sunlit seas.

The neighbors tell me no one died,

even though I never asked.