Lights Out

Sometimes you just have to leave
the dishes in the sink
and go on to bed
with no regrets. Bowls
will wait and not shrivel
for lack of water or soap.

New flats of perennials pause
in the warm night, parked on the porch,
dry soil soaked in cool water,
drenched as soon as I got them home,
but still dry out as mosquito air sucks

everything up into already soaked
stars lurking in the clouds. I’ll
need whatever juice I can muster

to rise early before the shovel of heat
hits me alongside the head
and sends me staggering back

inside. It’s a race to dig and drop
starter sets of salvias, thyme
and gaillardia – before
the sun begins baking the soil
into an overdone cake. My skin
feels hot as a done muffin. I spent

too much time in the melting
glass house picking only
what I need and can pay for—
sweat showering me in
lavender rivulets,
dizzy green swimming

through the offerings.
The living wins this round—
dirty can just wait.