my saturday night

visited two answering machines
of feuding friends. neither inspired words.
canceled plans and picked up flowers
in the yard while whistling "dixie"
to my dog. it's eight-nineteen and all is wrong.
in the driveway a streetlight shines,
apoplectic bulbs seem to greet night and i,
i watch from my window and dream of
autumn. not this fall that tumbled down so suddenly
but great big orange leaves spinning above my head
garage bands, road trips, halloween.
maybe next year.
the herb garden smells like piss.
i'll chalk that up to the dog, smell something
else, and move on. the grass is mowed
its edges squared.