Watching headlights cross the ceiling
One more night spentOne more friend moves south
The heat is a heartless bankeryet still can’t afford it.
Sleep is frictionlessin the house but not of it.
Now that he’s alone he’s staining his blue cotton hat
with dark continents of sweaton scorched Sunday afternoons
He mows in a white singletin a back yard flat as a pitch,
the grace of an old-fashioned lawn.
What is the sum of 6 and 11:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.