october is

i

sitting on your parents deck
watching you mow
the lawn
(not so much watching as )
being aromatically infiltrated
by blades-of-grass scent
shooting up from the churn
of the environmentally friendly
push (push) you gave at
eighteen, requiring a
donation of chore hours
lengthened
the year (now)
you've returned to your parents
basement.
i'm here for thanksgiving
and to tell you
the cut-offs are
hot


ii.

your dog sits on the new
trimmed lot,
basks in the warmth
of the october sun
and your cooing, cute
and sweet.
i sometimes think
you're talking to me
"sweetheart"
but i know those words are not
mine--love
rarely excuses pet names,
little puppy