LATE IN AUGUST

I give up! For three days now I listen
to that useless little runt
rattle and groan inside my guitar
like an old dog when you pet it.

I coax. I plead. I lie and threaten.
Lift. Turn. Shake. Shift to no avail.
What’s fallen inside that great dome
of sound refuses to come out to play.

The mossy pear tree by the fence
has only one pear left, hanging high
up where I can’t reach. Each morning
It swells and shines to tease me.

My father hugs the trunk and shakes
the whole tree to no avail. He even
gets a rake to try to reach it 
to break its stem to bring it down.

My friends tell me to come out and play. 
Music in the harbor! Greek food on North
Street, but when words turn outside In, 
I know to cling, to stay , and to listen.

PUBLISHED IN PIRENE’S FOUNTAIN, Vol 18, Issue 26, 2025