I press out crumpled tinfoil squares,
re-use cereal box liners,
and trim bruises from discounted apples.
I fear
for children whose feet are inside,
only their fingers moving,
for drivers honking seconds
after the light changes, and
words that make sour
taste sweet.
My folks were ten in ‘29.
They fed on lack and survival.
Dad had his hands in the
blood and guts of France in ‘44.
The greatest generation?
I bet they were.
April – September, 2018
Bare grays go away,
yellow-greens come,
and we long for the appearance
of red summer-ripe
tomatoes that drip down our chins.
Round, felted peaches
come in sunset hues.
Juice of the first
bite trickles out our lips.
Soon we see them no more.
Small brown-green
globes of scuppernong
jazz the air,
tantalize our taste buds,
and are gone.
At least apples are ripening.
Pumpkins will be toted by
toothy smiles and small
hands that cradle the
trophies to chests.
Leaves blush and drop away,
naked arms finger clouds,
draw down life blood for
next summer’s friends.
August, 2018
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