But with all the fresh food I've gotten the last few days I didn't feel like eating much tonight, so I'm just having quick noodles. I'll probably make something more elaborate for Labor Day. I'm actually quite tired tonight, despite having slept fairly late. Summer will soon be gone, and maybe my energy will return. Right now I can barely keep my eyes open. If I get to sleep early enough maybe I'll be able to get to the Goodwill store for its Labor Day sale tomorrow before everything is sold. That would be nice.
by Bruce Dawe
Every morning they hold hands
on the fleet diesel that interprets them
like music on a roller-piano as they move
over the rhythmic rails. Her thoughts lie
kitten-curled in his while the slats of living
racket past them, back-yards greying
with knowledge, embankments blazoned
with pig-face whose hardihood
be theirs, mantling with pugnacious flowers
stratas of clay, blank sandstone, sustaining them
against years' seepage, rain's intolerance.
Each evening they cross the line
while the boom-gate's slender arms constrain
the lines of waiting cars.
Stars now have flown up out of the east.
They halt at her gate. Next-door's children
scatter past, laughing. They smile. The moon,
calm as a seashore, raises its pale face.
Their hands dance in the breeze blowing
from a hundred perfumed gardens. On the cliff of kissing
they know this stillness come down upon them like a cone.
All day it has been suspended there, above their heads.