Noon leans on the lake.

It is rolling gently in its bath-tub.

The yard is filling with the song

Of a thrush hiding in a cloud of leaves.

A cricket crackles in the white-washed door.

I look up and down the road. Yes, you

Are coming back, your wrist-watch

Flashing in the sun. Dust rises

Under the wheels of your Harley-Davidson.

You pause before me, your motor running.

You say, trembling, “It didn’t happen.

I want you to know I didn’t take it.”

And I say, calmly, “You did.”

You shake your head and angrily roll away.

I look up and down the road. It is edged

With weeds, thistles, and goldenrod.

Mulberries purple the ground under my feet,

And the shadow of a pine tree bristles.