Petrichor
Only after it’s been sunny for a while,
just a few raindrops needed,
and that smell that everyone recognizes
but doesn’t have a name for.
Wet blacktop, wet earth.
Even in the city, you can smell it.
I take a walk on Dividing Ridge Road
with a three month old baby
in my arms to give
the parents an extra half hour
of shut-eye.
The heat of the day
is beginning to rev its engines
but the uphill portion of our lane
is shaded with locust trees
and the cool air of morning
is falling on our united bodies.
Oh, what a privilege
to hold this infant
whose world is coming into focus
as he is beginning
to keep his head erect
He lives in Brooklyn
and this week is his first visit
to our neck of the woods
With him i try to experience this moment
as if for the first time
the strange sound of cicadas
the fading perfume of honeysuckle
the low hanging branches of the pines
the rush of air through hackberry leaves
When my mind comes back
to the old man that I am
i calculate that if he lives as long as i
the world will be well into the next century,
it’s not a thought that steadies my heart
AS we reach the top of the rise
where the woods are thickest
I Press him close,
suddenly there is the slow guttural call
of the yellow-billed cuckoo,
a bird often heard but seldom seen,
its rattling gulps and hollering hoots
cause us to spontaneously shiver
The more technologically advanced we get,
the more rudimentary we become.
The less we communicate in person, and
the less we patience we possess.
Social media has presented a false sense of reality and
so many are portraying fantasies packaged as truths.
Not much is original anymore.
Everything is massed produced.
The sensation to go viral over morality, common sense, and/or safety
is so scary.
People are dying to be popular…literally.
And the ones they want engagement from
probably wouldn’t engage with or entertain them face-to-face.
We are so ahead but so behind.
There’s some solace in knowing history repeats itself.
My hope is we go back to the days where we actually remembered people’s phone numbers.
Oh how I wish that I could slowly sip the sweetness of summer without thinking about the bitterness ahead.
I’m retiring from my life as a spy
Just as well, cause that shit is lonely
They don’t tell you that in spy school
being a double agent is a long term practice in meausuring words
and gazes
Making implications about the future
Please take notes on how it should be
It will make it come true, if you only try
But I’m retired
From all of it, the grind and the lofty aspirations
I must find new fish to fry.
We drove down the narrow alley,
your 1990 Chevy pickup bounces
over potholes and slides into a
parking spot beside a black SUV
and two large windowless white
vans, the scary kinds you tell
children to stay away from.
You grab the blanket and I have
the can of cat food and we slowly
slip out of the truck cab, planning
our strategy, quietly closing doors.
Tiny meowing sounds tell us they
are still there, one hiding under
a black SUV, another cries out from
from behind a row of full garbage bins.
We dispense the cat food in various
locations, imagining that we can
somehow predict the frenetic skittering
patterns of two tiny kittens, left in this
precarious situation.
For two hours we sneak, bargain, urge
and pounce until you, of course you,
catch the tiny black bundle that wriggles
and finally succumbs to her captor.
You patiently coax and conjole this tiny
beast until she is curled in you hands.
The tabby will have nothing to do
with our sad attempts to block and
capture it, though she does eat a good
helping of food. She darts out from
under a van, scrambles behind a pile
of concrete blocks, and dives into
a thicket of poison ivy and brush.
You wait, resting and hoping you
can somehow will her to trust you.
After all, her sibling is safe under
the seat of your truck.
It’s dark, a man has come by to
collect his evening supply of aluminum
cans. He offers us the food someone
has left for those who need it, but
we tell him it’s okay, we are hunting
kittens.
We can’t leave tabby alone, so we
let her sister go, leaving them the
box, blanket and a bowl of water.
At least they had some food.
You look at me with the same big
beautiful eyes as that little six year
old girl who said, “Please, Mommy,
can I bring this one home? He
loves me.” I know we will be back
tomorrow, hunting kittens to save.
6/12/25
KW
Some crisp and clear
Others shadowy and slithering.
I can lose great chunks of time
Lost in a memory reverie
Eyes closed,
Sights, sounds, smells, tastes & touches seem real
The flush of emotion
Creating joy and excitement inside
The unsettling flutters of dissonant memories
That disturb the status quo
The realization of patterns, unnoticed at the time,
The shoulda, woulda, coulda of regret
The finiteness of time and opportunity
Juxtaposed against the infinity of possibility
Preening like a dove In the palms of God
They always say we’re spoiled
We have it the best
We get everything we want
And sure, growing up it may have felt that way
But we slowly stop hearing it as we get older
We’re the ones that get left behind
That have to figure it out after your gone
We become the parent to our parents
We stay in the small town
We hear people ask how dad is after the accident
We worry about making sure they aren’t lonely
We ask them “have you heard from her lately”
“Only a text goodnight”
We get the least amount of family time
The older siblings go off,
They set the example
Start living they’re own
And I’m still here
Too afraid to say goodbye
Too afraid to be the one they remember saying goodbye
Afraid they will have expected more
Afraid I’ll be the only one to show up to the old folks home
Afraid I’ll be the last one standing
With no one to lean on
