squirrel with cigarette No. 2

from out the hose it rushes
cold and gently
metallic, into the mouth
over the shirt,
soaking it, onto
crabgrass quilting
the back lawn
where bicycles doze
by the curb—
it’s a hot one.

downhill and around
the corner your friend
hides in the wedge
between the front steps and
the wall, out of sight but
not mind.
all the sunday drivers
on the road can see him
and though he is silent
you can hear him
still, his voice sings
of summer and engines
idling at red lights
and long dusks
and all the time
in the
world.