Hummingbird Stop

Our red gladiolas
grow so close to the letterbox
they flag the mail carrier
to a hummingbird stop.

A stamp on the day,
postcard smile of a nephew
reading the box scores,
maybe mama needs news
of wrens loose in the kitchen.

Its all normal, Norman,
we pour five cent lemonade in 
forever cups and watch
the neighbors cinch lawn clippings
in neat nylon.

Not a shot fired,
not a screen door slammed,
sometimes, thank Jesus, the boogie man
just dances to the bass.