On dead, dry, summer afternoons
I used to watch my dad work around the lawn
his dusty, brown work gloves carried the wheel barrow
or leaned the shedding ladder against the house.
The briny voice of the radio tells the score
while the sun plays in the trees.
I make my own games on the ground.
Later, Mom will call the dogs in
and Dad will lay the fertilizer over the yard.
tangy rays of sunlight will cut across the barbwire
and cars will pass the mailbox home from work,
so they can enjoy BBQ dinner.