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The warm summer air circles

around and underneath

our garden hammock

while the lace work intertwines fingers –

this hand and that hand; inseparable.

Here in the Earth limbs mix together; hungrily.

Drip sweat in between the lace work.

Tree groans with the weight of swinging,

roots drink more deeply,

clouds shift easily in the bright blue sky.

The neighbors spy,

and one lady remarks to another; observation.

“Are they?”

“Yes, I think they are.”

One blushes.  The other leans in closer;

fogs the sixth window pane.  Sips tart lemonade.

Rubs the crocheted lace work between her fingers.

A man turns the pages of this paper; crisp.

The news, edgy, polite, demands no action,

only observation, and the passing of quick judgements –

“Cannot two people enjoy their own garden in privacy?”

he barks while rubbing his gold wedding band with his thumb.

No friction there, just smooth, round, comfort.

Is he made aware of the new high price of necessity?

The cost of living, property values, pressures rise.

He coughs, swallows, unsettled, and turns another page.