Leslie said that I could print this and Byron, if you are reading it;  Don’t get any ideas.  It is just a poem.

“Byron in the Garden”

That is a good looking man in his garden:
Skin an orange brown in the afternoon sun:
Sandy headed even though he keeps it under his straw farmers hat.
He says “Howdy, How are ya?”  His words heavy with “R”s,  as if he is growling at you (but in a good way) like a puppy in a game of tug of war.

And he is always bent over something: compost, collards, corn, squash.  When he straightens up, he is not like the rest of us having to stretch
and rest.  No, his work is as easy to him as a kiss.

Sometimes he holds a hoe or a rake:  every now and then a beer. We pass by everyday on our walk:  his flag pole our turning around spot.  Byron’s forearms are almost the same size as his biceps, and he has cows. 

I try to not stare, but have to take a long look anyway. 
“Nice tomatoes:  pretty garden.”  I say. 
He nods, stringing some wire over the broken part of the fence.