Listen

Here every evening a woman
strides into her backyard calling
her rabbit which raises an ear when she sings:
Peppermint’s eyes’re red, His fur’s so white, Oh 
where’s Peppermint gone tonight? When she sees him
she relaxes and lingers in twilight 
as fireflies make brief green slashes 
and the blacktop ticks with the heat
it’s digested all day. Then in her grass
while the light collapses I watch her daydream 
a portion of the dusk away. I mean
I imagine she daydreams as through my screen
I watch her stride about shoeless, her rabbit
nibbling the lawn going grey. In a clean blouse, 
fresh from a shower, with night coming on, 
she might think of marriage. The lace curtains 
in the windows of her house are drawn. 
In my own still air and losing light 
I stare at her, her curtains, her rabbit’s white hair. 
Downstairs at the sink in my darkening kitchen 
a glass of iced water is crying a ring—
Has he	hopped the gate? 
Left me again? Peppermint, please—
she continues to sing, though it has not wandered 
and would not ever leave.