A day wide open to possibility, the world
held at bay, the phone off the hook, the television
unplugged, the newspaper left in a roll
on the kitchen table; he worked all morning
in the garden under bright sunlight tempered
by a cooling breeze, fell into a rhythm
with the earth, the past and future standing
back, around about noon he rose up
and stretched tired muscles, it was then
he heard somebody call his name, looking
to see where the voice was coming from
he shaded his eyes with one hand, nobody,
again the voice, was he going crazy? He laughed
to himself, but searched anyway; inside the house
he smoked a cigarette, sat at the table, got up,
unable to settle, the sky was still blue, the sun
shining, no mystery in that, and if he wanted
he could leave this place forever, what would
it matter, nobody counts that much, this life he thought,
means one thing to many, everything to a few.