Fear of Buzzing

I always give a wide berth to bees,
so I notice when they’re absent.
Behavior borne not of fear but healthy respect,

and recollection of stingings.

Avoid a soaking
get out of the rain.
Avoid a stinging,

stay away from bees and,

where bees hang out,
which makes me
suspicious of flowers, spilled coke

and other blooming things,

so while wide-berthing hostas,
listening for tell-tale buzzing,
I notice flowers still bloom

but bees are gone.

I wish no harm for bees or me,
hope to see them next spring,
but, until then,
I walk boldly by the hostas.

Most of All, I Miss…

I miss the crack of the bat,
the slap in the glove,

dirt and blood collected grabbing a backyard fumble.

Gone is dawn fresh dew,
wicked into blue jeans from waist-high soybeans,

when I walked fields, hoeing weeds.

Nearly forgotten are post-midnight bike rides,
past teeth-bared, ready-to-bite dogs,

and skeleton-filled cemeteries.

I remember script less dates,
starring long smooth legs,

delirious hands and confusion.

I miss,
smells of rain before it falls,
fractal forest shadows,
dreaming of love,
reading Dickens and Dickinson the first time,

my hand wind-surfing at 70 MPH out the car window.

Most of all I miss me.

Seeking Trash

He never found an unbreakable speed limit but, braking was the exciting part of riding with Dad.  The blur of speeding was predictable.  If we were in the car and dad was driving, and he always drove, we were speeding. 

Braking hard was always a surprise.  Some of our cars didn’t even have safety restraints.  When the cars did have seat belts, they were buried in the seats because Dad hated them, reasoning, “If we are in a wreck and the car catches on fire, we might not be able to get the belts loose and we’d burn up.”   He also comforted my seven year-old self with, “When we get in a wreck and get knocked out, the cops may not be able to get us loose before the car explodes.”

My safety restraints were the dashboard and the back of the front seat.

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