Invited Guest

There was rain. The yellowed grass husked green. The leaves are turning yellow.
Dad's skin smells like butter, flakes behind his ears into his cereal. O's. Honey O's.
Guy calls in a voice. On the telephone he says, There are toile dishes with peacocks,
blue, and fruit, lots and lots of grapes. Should I pick them up from this house with lemon scented banisters? Too much Pledge I think. Should I put them on a table?
Empty? To sell? To someone?
A crackle in the line. Or is it in his voice?
I say, It's getting cooler outside.
I say, There was a rush of ideas, and now September is nearly ended.
Guy says, What gives?
My sister's here, I say.
Sister opens the door. It squawks. She is holding a head of cauliflower. I picked this, she says.
Dad looks up from his Honey O's. He makes with his mouth the shape: O.
I put down the phone.
I put down Guy's voice.
Outside, the low growl of thunder.
Outside, the churn of weather.
Outside is not invited inside.