Neck cushion snug, visor shading,
I slip away, Chasing Frances in my lap.
A yard over whack breezes sways an oak
and whack plump acorns whack plummet
whack whack on the hood and roof
of Miller’s pickup, dented from past acorn volleys,
whack whack whackwhackwhack
sounding like Mable’s 22 Browning T-Bolt
cracking across distant Dry River Gap
then Miller reeves his chainsaw,
and his wife aims her leaf blower,
blasting acorns and whack whacking
against the porch screen.
So goes the nap.