takes cover under
his decrepit garden shed.
a cacaphony of dollops
pelt the thin tin,
beat the dirt around him
into a dark rich loam.
he can only wait.
ten minutes.
then twenty.
watch the leaves
of the watermelon vines
twist and spin
in the wind.
a wry smile,
contentment,
having just spent
a blazing June
mid-morning,
the fourth in a row
over ninety degrees,
bucket by bucket,
dousing each dry
desirable stalk in
the plot, refill
after refill.
of course,
that’s the best
rain dance:
to go and water
all the plants.
Toni told me this story:
I was around 7 years old &
my father took me to one of those pop-up carnivals
that appear and disappear overnight
in a grocery store parking lot
when we lived in Cleveland, Ohia
(Toni always adds an “a” when she says Ohio),
We were the last riders on the Ferris wheel,
decked out in yellow and silver neon,
that night & I think the kid operating it
thought he was giving us an extra thrill
by speeding it up–the dark, the flashing lights below,
the jerk of the carriage as we swung to the top
frightened me & Dad knew instinctively,
yelled to the operator
Hey Bud Can You Slow It Down!
I remember thinking Dad not only knows everything–
he knows everybody.
& sure enough we circled two more times
around at a slower, steadier clip.
A single endless noon,
Yawning sky full of nuclear flames,
Countless moons;
These hands become engulfed in blisters,
Tending to an empty field of maroon clay.
We live as pilgrim’s in a foreign holy land,
With peacock eyes and faithful hearts,
Ever journeying closer to that place we’ve dreamed.
Just the cutest thing there ever was
but mean as a snake
cute as a button
Viewing the Appalachians
from a hilltop lodge
overheard
the children’s splashing cry
as mama barn swallow
cheeter cheeter cheep
feeds her babies from the balcony
overhead
back to the cabin for some R & R
overheard birds
the red eyed vireo, eastern bluebird,
and blue gray gray Nutcracker
the muffled laughter, buoyant exclamations
of well fed teens
their races talk overheard…
I’ll spare you!
from my hideaway on the screen porch
evening birdsong serenade
Concur overheard earlier
I could live in a place like this forever.
Rocky Marciano echoes in my memory.
I am 6. My father is a baby doctor. He wears
a suit and a tie that gets peed on every day
by little penises. In his spare time, there
is my mom, my sister and me; his brothers.
This evening he’s in shirtsleeves, gathered
across the street with men from our block
in the heat of Philadelphia’s Indian summer
to watch a boxing match in a house
with no air conditioning, but with the only TV
we knew of. Did they root for Jersey Joe
Wolcott? I would have. Dad’s name was Joe,
Jersey was close by. But Marciano
was crowned the Heavyweight Champion
that night following “the greatest punch
in boxing history,” I discover. Thing is,
it was a delightful surprise – seeing my father
on a Wednesday night on the neighbor’s
front stoop, having a beer, playing
with their Saint Bernard before the match.
We had no dog to pet and no TV and no one had AC.
And Wednesday was my father’s day off,
Wednesday night his date night with my mom.
It would be years later that I would comprehend
my own partner leaving me behind to spend his time
in a living room crammed with screaming, sweaty fans.
It’s a thing, he says.
