Posts for 2020 (page 31)

On quiet, cloudy days I breathe clean, still air and
I remember smoking cigarettes.

The last pack cost me $4.28.
They were Parliament Lights,
barely cigarettes, but boldly so by default definition.

I tapped the top against my palm
to pack the tobbacco tight.
I picked at the edge, peeled the perforated plastic,
and a tiny smile of satisfaction greeted the 
victory of a perfect cellophane strip pinched between my thin fingers.
An unspoken game I’d play.
Never kept score.
Maybe I should have?

I’d eye the white filters and select 
the lucky one (always random)
flip it upside down and save it for last. 
Then choose another, inhale the tobbacco’s sweet scent,
And with careful concern and sudden urgency,
place it gently between my lips:
Never seductive like in the movies,
or as an ex-lover once described me
(His intensity and desire still resonate).

I reached in my front pocket for my zippo
–finger-lifted from a secondhand shop–
The distinct “click” opened to a bright orange flame
And I cupped my hands around it,
to keep it safe,
to cradle the fire as if my survival depended on it
(and it did)

The paper ignited and held the heat,
A tiny act of self-immolation to keep 
this sacred ritual alive
as I selfishly killed my lungs with a slow burn,
and I enjoyed it,
The way I imagine that ex-lover would. 

GRANDDAD’S SHADOW

Better bring a light
the day has just begun.
We’ll be some miles away
before we see the sun.

Don’t forget your hoe
them weeds won’t tend themselves
and grab a pair of gloves
a layin’ on the shelves.

Mornin’s made for men
before it’s bright and warm
you gotta do the chores
if you gonna run a farm.

Better bring some string and
maybe a hook or two
we might do some fishin’
when all the work is through.

He took me by the hand and
led me to the field
he showed me of my life and
the fruit that I could yield.
He stood like an Oak
to a mere lad of ten
he taught me all I know
of morals and of men.

And, though he’s long since gone
I remember what he said
almost every night
before we went to bed.

“Always be a neighbor and
try to get some rest
then when the work is done
fishin’ at its best.

Tony Sexton

Imagination grips me on the highway
in the form of a guardrail
twisted all to hell
just after mile marker sixteen.
Did someone get clipped
and spin out of control?
Maybe they hydroplaned
on the rain-soaked road?

One of those stories was my brother
asleep at the wheel and drifting
until he rolled his car three times
somewhere in northern Kentucky.
He and his friends walked away unscathed
save for knowing the worse that could have been.
I remember the picture of my brother taken later
sitting reflective in the front seat of the wreckage.

I also remember the snowstorm
that beat me to Illinois,
the whole state an icy battle
with roads threatening constant betrayal.
The losers settled into new fights
for warmth, stuck beyond the shoulders
waiting for rescue.
I couldn’t stop rolling.

We pass cars left empty
miles from the next city or haven,
orange stickers promising removal
if no one comes to claim them.
Does anyone ever make it back
or do those vehicles remain vacant
for the rest of their existence,
their owners moving on with life?

But then there’s the occasional cross
where a loved one’s life
did not move on.
I always worry about becoming
my own cross someday.
The guardrail comes back to mind.
Did they recover? Do they still walk?
Is that mile waiting for its own cross?

These stories
are all just blinks on the open road
where trials, life events, and sorrows
once gripped a pocket of people.
Most of us just pass by them
on a measly toll of curiosity.
This mile marker sixteen
was just another mile to me.

Let your life be small.

Words from my friend
for me to flip, consider
from one side, another: 
let yourself not matter,
not have to matter,
let yourself not
hurt over mattering
or not mattering.   

See yourself—a lower case
 item in an overfull world,
not a star, a single ray
or better yet, a spark;
not a work of art, 
a bright smudge, sharp lead

It’s too late to turn back.  The empty lot, muddied
by spring rain, is slowly sucking us in.  Each step layers
more and more muck onto our shoes.  Our eight-year-old legs
are soon unable to lift up and out of the mud.  Between sobs,
and screams for help, the two of us swear to:
                                                 never take this shortcut again, ever!
                                                
We can see the shape of Nancy’s house just up the road.
The sun is sitting right on top of its roof.  Dinnertime.
Why didn’t we save some of our Dime Store candy?

Long shadows stretch out across the field.  The sun has dropped
to eye-level, its warmth in retreat.  A night chill is oozing up
from the mud.  Fear shivers our bodies, chatters our teeth.
The dark is coming.  Will we have to spend the night here?
                                                                                Sitting ducks?

On the horizon, backlit by the setting sun, a figure lurches
towards us.  Our screams strangle in our throats.  But wait.
The monster is laughing.  He calls out our names.
It’s Nancy’s dad!
His strong arms free us, one by one, from our mud shackles.
Both pairs of shoes are lost, sacrificed to the underworld.

A warm bath, hot chocolate, the comfort of light allows us
to giggle again.  But later, in my dreams, the hungry earth
swallows me.  The dark closes in.

Morning should bring renewal.
Well-rested eyes opening at their leisure
But the baby is hungry
And the trash truck came early
A tree limb hits the lawn
No rest for the weary.

Morning should allow for quiet reflection.
Observing the sunrise, a feasting bunny, and the opening of tender blooms
But the world has returned to work
With heavy machinery moving metal plates and slinging rocks
Trains shouting their arrival 
Grime and exhaust hanging heavy in the air.

Morning should offer solace and hope
A strong cup of coffee, the fresh scent of dawn
But the neighbor has moved away 
And pesticide flies on the breeze
Grab the babies; bar the doors
Send judgemental glares out the side window

Morning should be a great many things 
But even morning can have an off day. 

What are the odds 
that I would pick up my phone
and you would be on the other end
a week after I decided
to let my heart open
to be filled with the wonder of the world?

And what are the odds
that you would know what I needed
like you always did
and that it would be
you?

Did the serpent tempt Eve,
Or did Eve tempt the serpent?

Will the meek inherit the earth,
Or will the earth inherit the meek?

Did Columbus discover the New World,
Or did the New World discover Columbus?

Did George Washington chop down the cherry tree,
Or did–no, that one doesn’t work.

Do we remember the Alamo,
Or does the Alamo remember us?

Did Walter Cronkite anchor the news,
Or did the news anchor Walter Cronkite?

Are the blind leading the blind,
Or is it the other way around?

Am I asking for a friend,
Or is a friend asking for me?

He steps out of a climate-controlled truck,
Determined to converse — that’s fine, 
I’m not busy or anything. 

“God it’s hot in here.”
Yup. 
“Well is the money alright?” 
I’ve worked harder for less. 
“Your generation doesn’t even know what work is.”
Guess not. 

I attempt my escape but the 
Mailman has made himself quite comfy;
He is leaning on the pallet 
Jack and I am anchored by etiquette. 
He continues his relentless barrage: 

“Yeah I’ll retire in a few years and live off the 
Property I’m renting.”
Ah, you’re a landlord.

Well, man, we’re understaffed on a
Good day and today ain’t one 
So I’d better get back to it. 

I check my bank account again, 
One can never be too safe. 
After all,

Rent is due.   

I found her old diary
charting the confusion,
the loss, her baby brother
missing in action.
This was not supposed to happen,
of course. He was too young,
too handsome, too filled with promise.
She said rosaries, lit candles,
but the waiting sucked 
any life from her.
She slept-walked through the days
too numb to care 
about anything else.