The sound chimes make once the door opens
by the dad who tunes his car or mows the lawn
or the wife who cuts hedges with audible fury
in the snip of the power hedge-clipper
or the two children, bright and classifiable
as slightly precocious. The parents don’t say no.
The chimes ring in the afternoon. It’s a holiday.
The dad goes in and out, and the chimes ring
as he re-crosses the threshold. One of them
must be driven to a destination: doctor?
Again the chimes ring. She will visit her sister
with the hedges clipped and leavings gathered
in nice symmetrical piles for the kids to stuff
in two-ply garbage bags with lining so strong
you could sail to the moon with two of them.
The chimes ring in rake-tines scraping the drive.
Dad’s in and out. It’s going to rain in buckets.
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