Gammon

Looking up, “The purple now,” she dips

her brush and finishes the day. The flag

descends. She draws the fire with a marker

on fax paper uncurling from its spool.

Inventory of glasses, the handblown ones

blue-edged could hold a sunset neat, the new

regime is softball-sized and etched with tigers.

In town they’re pulling draughts for every swinging

door. Don’t get angry, don’t get angry.

The soaker’s washed and left to dry. Iron

Hessians oversee the fire gone

to bed beside the harbor, geese calling

each to each triangulate the dark.

Passing through or are they wintering over?

In chevron resolve. Like waking to

the rain and walking anyway. She

thinking of what to do with pawpaw  jelly,

he of mildew and of marrow, while

their youngest bouncing gums the leather dice

cup, sister rolls, counts, and makes

a point. Get even says the horizon

like the sun, democratic and unsparing.