by Lori Lou Freshwater


Leaves dance their way down,
unfazed by this September heat. 
Bus stop routines set already-
summer ended years ago.
A chipmunk scampers under
a parked truck while once again
the young man does his morning run,
turning around       one block down.
Just as yesterday, dressed
dapper, the old man passes-
like a slide stuck in a projector,
the one for the day he dies,
leaving a house empty,
a field gone to seed.