Outside in the shade, the two-speed fan
is like an oscillating blow torch
offering velocity to 110 degrees—
yellow pad and pencil, my red wine
warm as a tepid cup of tea,
I listen to Outlaw on Sirius wondering
if any of us can make a difference
to how the world shakes-out after
another summer of half-baked promises,
malevolent campaigns cooking-up
new recipes to wear upon
the ageless face of God.
Dawn cool through the screen door,
gold print upon my coffee cup:
MT. SENTINEL RANCH, 1898 – 1998
for Francis Gardner
1942 -2016
