It’s not that
I don’t trust the driver.
I’m just waiting
for my brain
to realize
we’re not going to die.
Clenching my fists.
Pressing my feet
into the floor.
My back almost pushes
through the seat,
as if I could eject myself
the way they do
in action movies
during high-speed
car chases.
I hold my breath,
pretending
I’m not scared.
They don’t know
my car did a backflip
ten years ago.
the journey did not take long
I have remembering of when it was adventure
the hum of the road
the challenge of the directions
the delight in the rest stop
it was
always duty bound
my job
my way
my creation into the world
it is still this a journey of duty
and yet
wonder now held in hand
my life in the slow lane
I find the mile markers I am seeking right outside my front door
the hum of the road sings from my sidewalk
the directions that can take me to my next stop twine through the
flowerbeds
staircases
front porch
the guiderails leading in one clear direction
home
There’s a seed stuck in my throat
In the folds that create my words
I’ve tried to cough and gag and pry it out
But all I can do is choke
I think it will stay there
It likes the dark
And the wet
Maybe it will grow
Split open into something new
Maybe it will sprout so wide
My tongue will pop out
And as the leaves knock against my teeth
I will drink sugar water
For it to shoot up through my nose
So it will consume me
And we will become one
And all I will know
Is peace
Last year my wife went to an Al-Anon meeting.
One boho, twenty-something waif asked,
“You’re a helper too aren’t you?”
Infuriated, Bea issued divorce
papers immediately. Ten days
before our girl’s birthday.
Children are adaptable.
Reportedly resilient & capable
of cleaning up crime scenes
between fair to firmly consenting adults.
But if the question were between
helping you, or leaving you to bleed,
they’d rather not
face that their special person is weak—
their motto being, no one left behind.
My baby, Treena, found me once,
boiled as an owl, black
hair soaked with coagulate gore.
I wore Better Homes & Gardens
across my swollen, rattling throat.
The pages sticking with phlegm.
Treena mused
whether Dark Father needed stitches,
ointment, or immediate intubation. Since
Her Mommy was out for the day, she knew
she’d have to find needle, thread, &
appropriate herbal applications alone.
Smiling, she whispered, nappy time is a happy time.
She decided to make her breakfast by herself.
Pancakes with maple syrup topped with strawberries
& cream. It was easy! She made
the batter with peanut butter, ripe bananas,
plus selected berries from the garden.
She washed them,
picked them clean to plop a dollop of Redi-Whip
upon them. A dream.
My keys are by the door.
My car is parked on the street.
My mug is in the sink,
a splash of cream and coffee still marinating
at the bottom of the cup.
I don’t have to see it to know it’s true.
That is where I left them.
That is where they’ll be.
Our brains contain object-trace cells.
Those powerful little neural networks.
The electric signals that fire wildly to cue
where we left the things we’ll need.
We draw a map in our minds.
We trace our steps.
We try desperately to find and remember
the where of important things.
I have had such beautiful things
to herd and hoard,
to harbor and hold dear.
I cling tight to the knowing
they are exactly as I left them.
I beg myself to believe
I don’t need to see to know.
Sometimes though, I check and they’re gone.
These human shaped holes
in the space-time continuum.
I am surprised every time
I misplace them.
I trace my steps.
I consult the map in my mind.
I fire the signal to clue me in.
Somewhere my first dog is curled
at the foot of my bed.
My grandmother is baking in the kitchen.
The smell of German chocolate cake
fills her entire home.
My sweet friend fell asleep on my couch.
I can hear their snores if I listen closely.
My brother is jumping on the trampoline.
He’s excited to film “wrestlemania” after dinner.
My mom’s spaghetti is on the stove.
The summer sun is shining down on me.
I am cloaked in safety and warmth.
I pat my inner child’s back.
I am right here.
Serving pizza and beer till something
better came my way for about six months.
One sunny lunch shift in walks my brother
with Larry Rowlands and a sheepish smirk.
I waited on them and Larry left a tip bigger
than the total bill! Let me go back and fillin
the blanks.
Larry was the car salesman
at the Chevy dealer when Dad went to buy
me a cheap Chevy to job hunt. Larry took
a fancy to me at age 21, a new college grad.
He would call the house hunting me down
since he had our number. Wanted no part of him,
but Mom said just go out with him once.
It was a family joke when he called, I told them
I’m not HOME! They would hand me the coiled wall
phone receiver laughing. Naïve with men, I agreed
to ONE date where the convo was cars and football
not enough substance for me.
The final straw was the Sunday afternoon he brought
his mama to meet me. Like we were an item or something.
I freaked, lied said I had met someone and had a date. He left.
Family finally got the message- Larry Rowlands was
out of the PICTURE!!!
It wasn’t enough to just
