Dear Reader,
Word Raccoon has learned that she is getting her horseless carriage back today! She is thrilled! This heat has grounded her, and while she has access to a vehicle in the afternoon, she prefers to go to the gym in the morning, especially on overheated mornings like this!
However, she has managed to water the flowers and question the tomato. Shh…there are two, possibly three, blooms on the plant. I think the plant is going to require a support, and soon. We are not convinced that it will actually grow tomatoes, but we had to try.
WR also watered the sunporch because she forgot the window was open. Thank goodness her treasures are in lidded jars, especially her pinecones!
Her nose is a bit out of joint today because she submitted a packet of what she thought was targeted poetry, but it was rejected after just a couple of days, which makes WR go “But did you read it?” (She is not normally offended.)
I am encouraging her to stay with the writing this morning, but she keeps pointing to that list that if only we finished it, she knows the writing would be better.
As if those tasks are going to disappear, WR! Do them later, darling gorl!
WR is incredibly frustrated by the weather, btw. Not clear enough to paint the trim, too hot to walk to the cafe, even the fauna have taken cover. Not that we blame them. But our poor eyes have had to make do with crimson and clover.
While researching whether or not a certain story of mine from the archives had been published (we still believe it was but alas, the publication is now defunct, so we are still hunting), we discovered another story that was published by them and a poem we had forgotten about.
A poem, circa 2012. Not an assignment, but a wherever-did-you-come-from poem. Guess I was occasionally writing poems back then. It has an interesting line or two although it sounds way too earnest. It’s ornamented like a late 80’s jean jacket. But I might let WR gnaw at it, if she promises to leave something of the original.
We also rediscovered our first published poem (if you don’t count poems published in a youth church newsletter when WR was a teen), and we still like it. It was published in Manchester University’s Spectrum in 2012.
As rights have reverted long since, here it is. (I did not edit it now except change the spacing slightly and add a semicolon, though if I were revising it, I would fidget with it a bit. I would add what river that bridge spans. And I would make clear that I was watching so intently because I wanted to be sure it wasn’t my son on one of those skateboards instead of being where he was supposed to be, LOL.)
Yes, this poem comes from real-life events. (Is the title too on the nose?)
WR says she wants a skateboard. Absolutely not, young lady. (Young raccoon?)
The Skateboarders
A bald eagle crouches on an electric line
that spans the bridge.
The bird looks cold and cranky,
not at all majestic, and I feel cheated.
I try to write about my sighting,
albeit unenthusiastically,
until I encounter our local birds:
they lope along Main, to Market,
two young men, owning sidewalks with ollies,
plaid boxers peeking five inches above waistbands
of stove pipe pants whose knees are frayed by griptape;
the two force away the pavement with their feet.
The one with the blond hair milks the strings of his knit cap,
soars into a kickflip, terrorizing a toddler on a red bicycle.
They are board-borne birds,
all speed and arrogance, and I am captivated
in the cafe across the street.
The dark-haired one attempts a heelflip,
doesn’t make it, sees me staring, waves.
That is the first autumn he takes my order
at the DQ drive-through.
He leans out of the window to hand me my change,
and I know he remembers the wave.
He looks cold and cranky.
They never do skate again
after they start working,
do they?
I think that poem is all the ending this post needs, wouldn’t you say, Dear Reader? I feel this one in my back teeth.
Drema
P.S. Shouldn’t it be drive-thru? LOL.