they've gotten the garden
heater working. it's late in july—
in the hedges the wrens
are getting restless.
cats patrol and the air
is a pollenated pinkish
like the residue tipped
from a pill organiser.
my mother is out,
sitting with a friend,
cackling and opening
the next bottle of wine.
she never drank much
when she was younger. never
in front of the kids.
now she's catching up
on us. the old neighbourhood
is thick with retirement
and laughs rise occasionally
between propped-up back
garden brick walls painted ivy
like nesting seabirds
from the dry seagrass stretch
between that small golf
course and beachfront
on dollymount strand.