A purgatorial, picture-perfect Saturday afternoon pulls her pin-striped awnings down, lackadaisical and O.K. with limited sky and expanding shade. I twirl an umbrella drink and watch my toes roast in the zone below my cool equator's waist --all centaur once, now nulled to rubbery numbness. Too lazy to invent, I lie and note-take connections sifted out by Time, my editor and better. What rings against my enlarging ears still childish and complete? Full of a whistle's insistence and a tin drum's beat? "Only you," I would lie, but you are not here-- my dear encumbrance, taking the hip-weight of my own imbalance. I remember our days of ire and fire, burning out fierce seeds that germinate my present dark, surrounded by a shade that shadows out the lark. Do not come again. Do not! My downhill backyard is all otherworldly now, mounded snow and ice frothing at the plow.... Rest, remorseful shade. Take my sunglasses, explore the Everglades. Just do not intrude, intrude, intrude your half-tone tune into my afternoon. "Tu whit, tu whoo." How rudely forced. With my pink umbrella drink I'll beat you back! Guest ghost, how homeless you've made me-- second-guessing what the mirror insists, my hard-nailed words unpinned from referent. Time rolls me like the driftwood dead my enervation imitates. Oh la, olé.