The hummingbirds
have
vanished,
and, too,
the butterflies.
No rain
and the heat is
heavy,
like summer
in Morocco.
They found
Jimmy's body
by the pool
yesterday
after two
days
in the sun.
Eulalie died
by the tub,
three days gone
before we missed her.
Like finding
the bones of cattle
at a dried-up pond.
This drought
will not relent.
So why is it still
so green?
I had promised
Eulalie a call,
but the phone
just rang
and rang.
And Jimmy,
he was young.
He'd made a fortune;
hence, the pool.
I thought
there would be
time
for reunions
later.
I asked Kelly
if he'd play
"Old Man"
on his guitar
Friday.
I listened
and sang along,
remembering
that last long drive
in LA
when I mourned
my lost youth
and wished
I could hurry things
along.
And now
I miss
old friends
but hang on,
a stubborn Pagan
in a world
full of Christians
telling me
it's not too late
to be saved.
But it is.
Next time
I'll let it ring
and ring
until someone
picks up the phone.
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