Poem for a Sunday Afternoon
A dullthud, thud, thud
prevents me from napping.
I go to the window and peek through the blinds.
Below, Gina is crouched in her yard,
pitching green walnuts the size of baseballs into a plastic bin.
Hey batter, batter.
I whisper
to the Cy Young of gardening.
I shuffle back to bed,
but can’t quit thinking of
Gina’s red sweater
and that pile of lime green circles
resting in the bottom of that blue bin.