(I speak from the cuff)
with all the cuffs rolled up
   on my shirt sleeves, my pants
by the chain link fence
   on that sunny day far from the seventies
     and the nineties as it’s at least one hundred
      degrees with my arms by my side in the seat
        nearly touching the earth supplicating for the
          dry seeds that blow in a hovering breath through the
fence
            by the snapping peapods of scotch broom
             amongst the scent of music and meadow
            sweat and the scrub jays and dragon
          flies are quiet as shadows of
         yesteryear’s leaves (today)