Outside

You want me to write a poem

about what's outside that door?

Don't you know if I walk out there

I'll be on the filthy patio? That

piled out there are the tools

I was too tired to put up on Thursday?

The dog will want me to play

and the trees are budding

and if I don't pull off the new growth

below the limb level I'll be out there

this fall with a pruning saw.

There's nothing but weeds there

and it spattered rain today.

Not enough to wet a twig

but enough to make the dog's feet

and mine bring in the wet.

You want me to go outside?

To feel the peace?

There's no peace outside

or in. Because there's none

in me.