Waiting for June

A high-backed, slatted chair
as throne in a long-stemmed garden.

A city beyond it with glass, suits, revelers:
It changes by the hour.

Cars bead the bridge, a laudable
organization if only we knew what it was.

Here, in a garden between houses,
the chair waits.

A person will sit and face the sun.
There will be no sun. 
As now, there will be no person.

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