Rufus Johnson Alone All Day

Today‘s the butt of a quite endless May
And so much sun bludgeons this hapless plain
Rufus resembles that proverbial egg
On the sidewalk, yet without any pain,

For he’s on at least beer number thirteen
Without even a game for an excuse.
His son’s left home to become an actor,
And so Rufus has become a recluse.

All Saturday he sits on a green chaise
Staring out at his sad, still empty pool,
Listening to old Willie Nelson CDs
While the weather goes from scathing to cruel.

Neighbors fret outside the privacy fence,
Conferring in hushed tones about our man.
They saw it coming when his wife ran off.
They hear the crinkling of another can,

Its clatter on the upswept concrete deck.
The sun begins to set on Rufus town;
Willie’s blues eyes are crying in the rain;
Here, a hellishly hot night settles down.