Poem: Barbecue

[jakebe]

Tired. Eyes closed.
The tree sounds like rain,
sun on my face,
birds worming into my brain.
Slow.
The smell of dirt and meat
(unrelated except for location)
tempting but not stirring.
Tired. Eyes open.
Occasional disturbance,
always welcome: a friendly dog,
a lonely beer. Always happy to
keep both company.
Bowling, possible. But later.
Tired. Voice floating along
with sizzling and glass.
Later, there will be cake.
But only when the moon breaks
over boarded windows, and the head
is too heavy to move.
Good times, good times.