Outer Banks
Complex
Charming
Cooperative
Collaborative
Compassionate
a
place
in time
called Harmony
I study a red tanager as she collides
with my plate glass window. Constantly
she gives up, sweeps
away, then returns. Thunk,
thunk on the glass & that same
sudden impact at the end with no
learning. She always bounces
back & cluelessly
returns. I imagine what
she sees through the glass—piles
of books, stacks
of mismatched plates, half
cup of V-8. Everyone
but me has taken off
for the day & the tanager
keeps reappearing. What
of mine does she want? The dying
rose in the Pepsi-bottle
vase, the coffee lingering
in a cracked mug, the book
wide open on the console?
Some mornings all I want
is a big mug of coffee perked
on the back burner in my
dead grandma’s kitchen & a bowl
of grits with a fried egg on top,
the yolk running everywhere,
& one of her plump biscuits
hot from the oven, ridges
in the shape of her fingers
baked into the crust from
when she’d patted them in the pan
like a baby’s butt. Maybe she’s
crisping up some fatback
to tuck inside the biscuit,
or spooning out some pear
preserves she’d put up herself.
There’s leftover fried chicken
& Irish potatoes in the pie safe
& a box of Nilla wafers
for that banana pudding
she’s got planned for supper.
She smells like bacon fat
& butterbeans, Doublemint
gum & Beechnut snuff.
Sometimes her apron strings
fall open in the back & she
lets me re-tie them, telling me
I’m her special boy.
Their plans are groundless.
Georgia wine country is only the beginning
and, yet, June is still voice-work month.
Widows are middle-aged sailor mercury,
Latin for ‘sex god,’ ya know,
challenge and joy at the same time.
Grape is nipple for our good familiar creatures.
Drink is all the buzz, a small premium estate,
a drop zone of sorrow; a fruit.
Vine is lifeline.
Love is a chemical colder than death.
Dirty clothes dashing
down the hall
simply trying to squeeze
in that last load of laundry
before the bags are zipped,
toiletries staring at a ticking clock
waiting to be shoved
in a side pocket
and raced out the door,
snacks packed ferociously
by starving savages,
a glimpse of your eyes,
and smoke ascending
from my heels…
I wake hoping
to get what I like
avoid what I don’t
I cinch my belt
prepare to traverse
the obstacle course
I imagine between
this side of the day
and sunset
Bernie and I went down to Mexico.
This is after his wife Susan died
in a car accident. He still had the car
under a tarp in the garage. He showed
me the blood, her blood, on the steering wheel and seat.
He said he needed to let go, but not yet,
not yet.
In Nogales the locals place plastic flowers
on the graves of their loved ones.
Bold, beautiful primary colors
like those found on bubblegum ads.
I wanted to take photos, I had my camera,
but it felt disrespectful to the
families gathered there.
So we wandered over to Elvira’s
for two shots of tequila
and huevos rancheros, it still being before noon.
On the drive north we stopped
at an Indian casino. We got chips
and sat down at blackjack.
Bernie burned through his stack
in a matter of minutes — his was a
particularly pervasive run of bad luck.
When I was up a cool hundred,
we called it a day and drove
the rest of the way into Tucson.
I tried to pay him for gas,
but he wouldn’t take my money.
I still have two chips from that trip,
one red, one white, the colors
of carnations, bright as the Virgin’s tears.
I call Bernie, there’s a sigh on his end,
Not yet, he says, not yet.
The first tomato is summer’s gift
delivered when warm nights
follow hot days, and enough
rain falls, but not too much.
The first tomatoes glow red
under the sun, grow fat
and happy and sweet. They
fall into your hand as you pick them.
When the first tomatoes ripen
buy good white bread, bacon,
lettuce. Set the bacon in the
oven to cook to a perfect crisp
toast the bread to the exact
degree of brown, slice tomatoes
let them rest on paper towels
while you spread mayonnaise
on toast, layer bacon, lettuce,
tomato, slice the sandwich into
triangles, eat for breakfast
every morning for a week.
I live in south central Kentucky,
on the line of time zones.
Is it eastern or central,
don’t ask your iPhone.
It can be confusing,
to say the least.
Having a wall clock
gives me some peace.
I have a small stove,
no clock or timer.
One day I was baking
and asked Siri for a reminder.
I went to the porch
and sat with a book.
Enjoying the moments
until my brownies were cooked.
I lost track of time
engrossed in my reading.
What was that smell
that I was breathing?
You know this story?
Yes, and I have the reason.
It wasn’t operator malfunction
Siri committed treason.
She set my alarm
in central time.
Then I put down the iPhone
and she changed her mind.
Now I have a mechanical timer,
my new kitchen aid.
The time zone is mute,
when baking, anyway.
