you made my patio furniture real you made sitting here an actual thing to be doing you turned the birds and the bugs and the Willow into the scenery of a real play instead of just stuff to not notice or to vaguely notice or to mow around you made this table this table, a thing we were sitting and talking around; this ashtray this ashtray, even though neither of us smokes anymore and it’s filled with a perfect spring tea made of rain water, twigs, curly leaves, dead potato bugs, and tiny shards of the reflection of your face next to mine, when you moved in close to tell me something slightly scandalous, punctuated by the smell of mown grass and the sounds of distant mowers how abstract it is now, how the legs are rusting off the chairs, how the dandelions have gone all rangy and tall, in the years since this patio stopped being a thing, and the mowers get closer and closer and more insistent every day