She would appear way down our dirt road
at the turn-off, leaving a quarter mile more
to walk to our house; ample time to run, get
mother and for her to get her saved change,
put away weekly in her left dresser-drawer.
Momma! Momma! The Avon Lady’s coming!
Lugging two big black satchels, yanked her
arms down, rounded shoulders, trudged her
gait, but she never wavered, never stopped.
Her long dresses, dark, austere; dark as those
high-tops and thick, opaque wrinkled hose
amazed a near-naked kid in steamy, white air.
I never saw any evidence of the woman-things
she sold on her face or arms of weathered skin
or her unadorned, piercing…..unblinking eyes.
Her brimmed straw-hat sprinkled her plainness
with points of white light, seemingly, seeping
from within, bathing her existence in radiance.
It was a fear of failing, forced to face
the truth so blithely drown by hiding dreams
in days and tossing nights that held my place
in time, banality, or so, it seemed.
Always the thought was there: to write, release
the only thing I owned uniquely mine;
my take, but excuses would never cease
to take their toll; depleting pride and time.
But age at last with fingers raised to take
a pulse along my neck with icy tips
on wrinkled skin did startle me awake;
so now, alone for hours with moving lips,
I sit composing verse and smile and fret
and curse, but never do I feel regret.
never a strange belittled concept usually kicked aside ignored as if never uttered a misunderstanding a muttered hasty response oh yes I know but things have changed we must reassess our priorities change gears a typo inserted hurriedly as he stood reciting brusquely dismissing from behind his mask attempted input the numbers the meld score will tell us more in two weeks typing inserting you in the forever known never to be removed at his squeaky mobile lectern he pushed to his next tiny room off his tiny hallway bumping clunking denting cheap door facings his blue plaid stefano ricci shirt unimpeded by lab coat the brightest thing in the building on the street in the city in the tri-state area I will never read that line to you as written from patient education and instructions section of pages pushed to us as I pushed your chair bumping tiny room walls off the tiny hallway he too hurried a coward to say never to our faces never be a LT candidat e the e left to dangl e ther e never to be corrected alon e
Every guy has to have his Eve; gal too, her Adam.
If not an actual mortal, a blemish to blame; given,
no, inserted undetectably and inoperably by God!
"God made me do it: I had a really, really bad day!"
To this day, some 40-odd years past,
still I can recall that instant of offense:
a negative taken to a shop for enlargement
and some clueless dudes’ snide comment,
“There’s a lots of green in that shot man!”
I probably blushed offering no defense.
The photo; my son hop-splashing across
shallow, cold rock gurgling Holly Creek
in glee, startled water and he, frozen blurs
of joyous motion deemed forever known.
Suspended trees' and banks' radiant greens
swaddling him in infinite hues of caring.
Is there such a thing as too much green;
over-abundant life? Are there cravings for
hard-gray walls, rarefied and songless air,
worlds existing in a mirrored box of self?
Slap! “Little mosquito shit!” I wince as he
takes a sip of me into eternal green time.
Belated Words 