"Summer's Sunday"

 "A Summer’s Sunday"

                     A greeting’s shadow,
                     handshakes tight with
                          empty bone.
         
                     The sloppy shine
                      of the bike’s parked 
                      chrome coated in
                       a sun’s white oil.

                       A tire’s screech
                        like a young girl’s
                           first scare.

                        and you look
                        for an eagle’s truck,
                        with envelopes listing

                             your name,
                                   
                                   your address,

                                      where you stand today.

                         And a truck is leaving,
                         without delivery–
                         a man happy taking
                               a drive
                         because today he has
                               nothing else
                                    to do.