Watching headlights as I gaze upon the ceiling
One more night goneA friend moving south
The heat, a heartless bankerYet one can’t afford it.
Sleep is frictionlessIn the house but not of it.
Now that he’s aloneStaining 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 11 and 8:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.