She was not at home—at least
no one answered his heavy knocking—just
as well; the hot sun that afternoon
drew him to a shady patch on the green
lawn where he stretched out, dusty hat drawn over his red face
to block the intense
mid-day light.
A white

curtain stirred in a small window
upstairs. No breeze set it going
but one pale hand, and a slow sigh
that followed, then nothing.

Her father found him snoring, roaring
there among the daisies, which turning
on his side at some point, he had accidentally
crushed. The bees buzzed curiously
around the wiry stamen ends of his beard which smelled like honey,
which smelled like the coffee
he had also had for breakfast. He was dreaming
about something that made his lips twitch, turning
up into a wide and welcome smile
and all the while

Father stood there, watching, no Poet
on the grass, but Idler, Loafer,
Dreamer, whose Bulk gave off offense,
or odor of Content.

He knew without words that it was hopeless
for now and sat up, pushing with one meaty fist
the hat brim past the line
of his eyes, opening his mouth, but before words came out, the thin
lipped man snapped
his bare chin toward the street,
and the great mass of Whitman leaped to his feet with a grace
you'd hardly expect of such a form. Leaving, he removed the hat,
glanced over his shoulder, and tossed an Expect I'll be back,

his look knowing, wicked the laugh
that sets the daisies humming, that wilds
the haltered air, that widens the crack
sash to sill, disordering page & hair.