The sun on my neck is an invitation to stay.
It has been a long season of dim-white cold.
The kind of season that moves you along,
like a waitress eager for a cigarette.
And I’m ready to pause.

Here where I write, with the sun moving across my back,
there was once gravel and parked Electras and Ford Escorts.
And before this the soil often shook from passing freight trains,
and before the trains, toads crouched beside tufts of slough grass.

What could I learn from squatting here for a millennia?
Squatting here with the sun moving across my back. 
And why then should I be moved by some disapproving glance?

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