Seven P.M. on a Sunday in June

My feet and legs are dirty still despite the shower,

Run with streaks of black-brown where the water

From the mulch cascaded from the surprisingly

Permeable plastic bag and the clean water and soap

Failed to, well, clean. Wet hair drying on the patio,

Rocking slowly with one foot on the concrete, the

Other one a-dangle, I am the sort of tired that is not

Exhausted but is, instead, a pleasurable weariness

Of muscles stretched but not to soreness, enough

To know I am alive but not sorry for it. Things got

Done—some, at least, a goodly amount, enough

To walk into the week with not exactly swagger

But with confidence the house is cleanish and

The yard is kemptish and nothing is the worse for

All that was accomplished and all that was not,

A frankly enviable position for seven p.m. on a

Sunday in June, and there’s still daylight left.

6/2/2024