I'd rather not think about anything out of my sight. I stare
At the trees instead. They're motionless, showing no sign
Of a breeze to leaven the sizzling August air. We had some
Friends over to swim in our pool. They've gone. The sun
Has, likewise, retreated behind the burr oak on the bluff.
The kitchen is clean. I don't have to work on the morning.
I'm done. I have nothing to do, but gaze at the fields
And the unmoving trees, and try not worry about someone
Slicing me open tomorrow to replace the gadget which
Makes my heart beat as they've said that it should. I write
You a story, a pitiful squib, as I savor more vodka, and look
Out the window, a hostage in some sense, whose
Heart's not his own, in the late summer's withering heat.