Standard,
I crouch into shrub and bush
where ants make mounds
and bugs call stones mountains,
my looming, my loafing,
background chatter to the only
living creatures who might care
I appreciate this hallowed out hollow
space that waits alongside
the garage wall,
where tree and growth intersect
and I am due a rest.

Hunched,
I am bent over, doubled like
a man thwumped in the chest
from meaty knuckles, though
if pain were to exist I should
state it product of the mental,
my eyes are tight,
my arms around knees,
I rockabye my frame
as I wave bye-bye to a
Saturday, where I am left
to my own choices.