Sitting

on my front porch knitting,

My slowly dying dog is calmly sunning

in between occasional terror-like wakings,

not your kind of night terror I’m assuming.

Next to me, on the bench, your voice is harmonically chanting,

indeed that British accent is enchanting:

through my computer, lovely poems, oh many lush stories you are trailing

from your past, and I think I am too yearning,

for such delicate sharing,

as I occasionally sip my Snapple through a straw though it surely is warming,

not tasting that good anymore, and an infrequent breeze is chiming

the collective wind pipes that are hanging

on my trees, when my neighbor walks her dogs chatting

on the phone, her very tiny pooch is yapping

and the other one enthusiastically looks for the best spot to go peeing

She usually stops by and we go on loosely yakking,

but this time she just kept on walking,

perhaps she heard another voice occupying

my attention. Perhaps she saw I was busy picturing

what it was like sleeping

on the beach in Greece, thought I have been slumbering

long ago on the beach in Israel, that I can swiftly recall that feeling –

As there is nothing,

like a Mediterranean salty air, warm gentle waters waving,

methodically, smoothly, chomping

at the rough sand, musically grinding

tiny, a million or more sea shells, to then be retrieving

back to sea, back to where they were coming

from, just like these patches of memories you are sharing,

and making this lovely spring hour, corona isolating

time, so affectionally to our – your audience and my – liking.