The patio chronicles (cont.)

It feels sinful to enjoy something 

as much as I enjoy this moment,

out on the patio 

(where else)

reclining on the molded plastic Adirondack

with feet bare 

and legs bare

and arms bare,

wearing jean cutoffs from 1997

and a cotton yellow Target tee (gift of sister)

printed with a big yellow apple

(which shouldn't make it necessarily more comfortable, but does?),

an empty Stella Artois chalice on the ground

(recently full of Sam Adams Cranberry Lambic),

and a belly full of sauteed chicken and mushrooms and balsamic vinegar and green lettuce and strawberries from the Copley Farmers Market,

legs satisfyingly sore from sprinting the tallest hill in Southie not long ago,

WGBH jazz tinny through the screen,

boston.com saying it's still 77 degrees at 1:21 a.m.

(and the thunderstorms they mentioned 3 times in tonight's forecast

nowhere to be found, funny),

and I'm not sad to be here alone, quite frankly,  

with a brain full of anticipation for tomorrow because

it's a Sunday in June

and maybe the storms will hold off and

and there's a bike to be ridden all afternoon

and friends to see and eat and drink with

and concerts to attend .... 

... and the body feels nourished and fatigued 

and as sunny as the yellow apple on my t-shirt

and, sometimes,

life is just good,

for no one special reason.