A Broken Man Finds Respite

Here is a caterwaul of flowers
and a whisper of grass clippings.
Here is an argument of hedges
and a cacophany of climing vines.
Here I am sitting in a gripe
of a chair on a nagging porch
without a sound in my clang
of a throat, waiting for something
to happen in my tambourine brain.
Even the bees and the flies
are quiet little chimes in this
drum-roll weather where I can't
even remember what time it is
or what it would mean if I knew.