Raspberries climb along the fence
this evening of still sun, perfect
after twenty-one years' practice.
Supper cleared from the kitchen table,
no more excuses for my dawdling over
"one more cup of coffee, Mama."
The Catcher in the Rye bound up
in shirts and argyle socks; now
hurrying to make the train at eight.
I pull out on the valley road
past the family of mailboxes
shouldered awkwardly together,
the sun flattening
on the spinning pavement.
In the evening's catch of breath
the Roybal's horse stands dappled
with Tesuque apple branches,
fenced in a small patch
of rearview mirror.