Lyman and the Dragonfly

The sky, black as oil spill,
and stars, well, like butts
carelessly tossed and Mars
still lit burns due south,
igniting it all. My dog’s
gone renegade, hounding
empty porches and a yellow
cat stretches out in the gutter
in the wool of brown-shaved grass.
A barn owl hears it all and hollers.

I wait in the driveway: Gemini.
I must rename them — Dragonfly —

Rename them all while I wait:
Rattler and Goat, Sidewise Slim
and Gran’ in her rocker, Powerline
Pole topping the ash tree,
Torquewrench and soon
that old coot, Lyman,
holding forth his lunker pike,
giddy for a snap, has pliers
hanging from his belt
in a brown leather pouch.

Image: Javier Esteban on Unsplash

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