as asshole grackles descend
on my backyard garden,
I miss you.
and while
I was hoping for a hotel in Boca
by the mall,
I will settle for a night
or two in New Jersey.
I go places
in my head,
where birds fly,
and fine gone gals hide.
I go places
super unknown,
behind libraries,
in front of benches.
the sounds are certain
to stick with me,
making me smell
the past
like fresh-cut grass.
certain lips and hips
have me
instantly because
they simply
remind me;
doesn't matter who's attached.
back to the garden
and I am the scarecrow,
there is a list of immortal few
buried beneath the radishes.
I wonder if Dale and Pat,
Tim or Deb
know these time travels.
my heart is gone,
but it is good.