It is Summer and in Connecticut the Grill is Grilling
They do not know the time in my zone.
Ghosts are in the sockets and they write to me of food: of Thanksgiving dinners,
Christmas hams, Summer hot dogs. I could write about the yellow rings on the sheets,
the teeth in the pipes, all the light bulbs which have gone missing, the hair of the dog,
the colors of the rain I wear, the plaque on benches, the voices behind walls.
I send a letter, later, about nothing.