It must me nice eating here

Top step, my front porch

Not back yard

Where you belong.

Cracking my acorns

Eating your fill leisurely

As if you reserved a table.

Who knows?

I never see you dining

Maybe you alone

Maybe in a party

I wish I knew.

I was annoyed

Brooming away the leftovers

Finding it considered a service

With no tip.

Oh well,

You don’t care about me

One bit and why should you?

The dark season is coming.

All summer is just a waiting

For fall to drop the acorns

Hunger a season away

Never mind.

Today is a good warm day

Getting shorter

Enjoyably long enough

A table with a view

Plenty of present nuts

And me to sweep

Cares of tomorrow

Into yesterday.