Poetry

the lamp is my new favorite
it’s brass
and the whole thing gets hot when it’s been on awhile
and the lights bend and move
and it’s perfect next to the pull out bed by the fireplace

and it reminds me of the ones
in my grandparents’ house in hendersonville
where squirrels come to the porch for walnuts
where sometimes, reading in the green chair,
you can see a black bear roaming
where my sister and I used to sprint
without abandon down the golf course hill
in our swim suits while the sprinklers ran

back when catching fireflies in jars
and looking for frogs with flashlights after dark
was enough
I found one that still had a tail, once
not a tadpole, but not fully a frog

caught between one thing
and the other.

She jogs the empty corner of the shopping center lot,
where barberries catch the dead leaves.

The wind fills her Buzz Lightyear coat,
thrashing and dingy at the elbow.

The bus hulks against the wind.
She stops and eyebrows my truck

when I wave her across. She grins like the boy
in the shopping cart I saw an hour ago,

in his own Buzz shirt, grin full of stars
at the galaxy he was discovering,

the world slow as understanding. The woman in the lot
already knows what it means to miss

the bus, to be late, to dare to run in front of a car
when you cannot see the driver, your hair a tangle

in a wind that, outside of any car, only you can feel.
The three-finger wave I give is barely visible

above the steering wheel, a hand
of threat and grace, which she won’t know

without that first step. She jogs the crosswalk, the bus
heaves and hisses, its windows reflecting her arms

and shoulders, her face watching the ground,
where the wind shoves leaves in every direction.

didn’t let him see her

looks well — settled in well

not seeing her — not agitated

only communicating with staff he likes

doesn’t like other residents therefore few activities

some men’s activities

looked well

eating, not depressed

———

busy marking this week

This is the corner store, years gone now, where Mae, her left leg an inch and quarter shorter than the right, would hobble up the narrow and uneven wood floor aisles. She’d fill an order for a kid with mismatched shoes sent, note in hand, on a mother’s errand. Then another for the Camerons, old folks from across the street too infirm to make the seven-block trek uptown to the supermarket. The Stroehmann’s bread push bar, tacked to the wood-framed screen door back before Mae ran the place, is faded from years and use. A lighted Hershey’s Ice Cream sign, turned on in the dusk hours, hangs in the right-side window. On the left are the week’s advertisements printed on rectangles of thin white cardboard: Lebanon bologna, butter, and heads of lettuce are all on special. Just inside the left window, partially hidden by the rack of chips and pretzels, sits the old dark blue metal floor cooler. Once, when you were four, maybe five, your great-grandfather gave you a coin and let you walk a half block down the alley to the store. Your great-grandfather is old, older than Mae, older than the Camerons. You know his name is Jesse, but everyone calls him Poppy. He is the last German speaker in your family, and sometimes says things you do not understand, but when he talks to you, he leans in, like it is a secret, and you understand well enough. After you reach the store, you slide open the hefty lid of the cooler, rummage in its chill and dampness until you find a tall bottle with ridges and a red and white symbol: RC Cola. You give Mae the coin and walk back up the alley, the bottle cold and substantial in your hands. Poppy uncaps it for you, and you sit in a chair next to his in the front yard, feet dangling in the air, while you drink. And now, with all that has come to pass, you understand that those frozen moments are luxury.

A battalion is born
from former police officers,
wear a chevron,
take the patch and medallion.

Training ahead:
blood, sweat, and loss.
Shame. I’m in a warm bed.