Last Play of Light


Sunflowers swoon
in the fading light.
Pollen gusts have ruined 
my eyes.

Thick hot soup
of summer evening—
a thunderclap follows
a sizzle in the east.

The sun dips off
as raindrops tink
the thin tin roof—
I clap mosquitoes.

Ice cubes rattle a glass,
whisky poured over
slowly so it chills
before the first sip.

Tip my Stetson
to the hombre
on the moon
in his sombrero.

Tip my Stetson 
to the sagging
sunflower army,
defeated and sombre.