Tomorrow would’ve been his 92nd birthday and i don’t know why it’s so sunny out. The breeze whisks away the summer heat in dust flurries and lavender. Every swaying tree and garden flower tsktsks my desire for clouds. I wash the dishes. I set the table. I wrap myself in everyday tasks. The hot peppers ripen from purple to red. Sparrows pick at the seeds that Meghan scatters out back. The cats occupy their cushions. There’s cruel comfort in the quotidian. It’s good to sit in the garden.
Mourning doves sound like
rusted springs on wind-up toys
when they fly away
Matthew Hupert is a NYC native, a poet, a multimedia artist, an editor, and a generally decent human being.