Running in the Rain

I went for a run
in the rain
at the Vineyard sports complex.
As I ran the circuit
dodging puddles growing in the track
droplets splattering my glasses
I remembered the jet flyover
in 2020, when the whole family
came down to this same park,
wandered out into the vast soccer fields
keeping our distance from other family clumps
gathered for the same purpose
waiting for the jets from the air force base
fifty miles north of us to fly over
as a show of solidarity, or strength,
or to cheer the locked down population
or something I don't remember anymore.

I thought about the pilots, what they
might have seen, flying the length of the state,
over clusters of people in parks in towns
from Tremonton to St George, people like
black dots far below craning their necks at the sky
expectantly, watching for hope, or for change,
or for evidence that the world was not ending.

For us, it was an excuse to leave the house
to show the kids something they could see
with their own eyes, and not through a
glowing screen. I didn't write anything down
about it, so I don't remember how they reacted,
don't remember how we felt, or what we said,
making it just another strange episode
from a strange year, that will never fully fade
from memory, like the sticky black x-shaped
residue on restaurant and grocery store floors,
which, years ago, told us where to stand,
told us that safety was found in separation--
how true that message feels when viewed
from a remove of so few years.

October wasps

they're sitting ducks

these late season wasps

blown in through office ducts

they buzz listlessly 

on my windowsills

wander the bright panes

hunker idly for days.

I let them be, usually,

watch them wallow feebly

through these final days

keeping me beleaguered company

even their color less vibrant

than their summer peak

when they hover menacingly

around park picnics

always flitting out of reach

deftly dodging the electrified swatter

the metal meshed tennis racket

bought just to target them...

no, by this late in the year

the lust for revenge has cooled

and I feel little need to put an end

to a life now past its threatening prime

and so obviously nearing

a lethargic, peaceable conclusion.

building boxes

feed the clear band of tape into the tape gun

mind the jagged spikes of the cutting edge

stand the empty shell on end, bottom side up

fold down flaps (whispering raspily against inside walls)

press the gun against the side

let the tape find its hold

pull against its gentle tug, up to

the upside-down bottom

lay it smooth along the seam between flaps

bridging the gap, forming a new surface

a new base, sturdy, that won't give out

won't open underneath and drop its load

with a bewildering crash into the unknown below

the gun growls, but not in protest, 

readily reeling out adhesive

down the opposite side

now to apply the teeth, push them against the taut line

straight as you can

smoothing down the final tail

then lift, flip, drop the box

bottom side down

an upside-down drum

an empty room

four thin walls and a floor

ready to fill with whatever cannot be left behind.

ripping out the flowers

 freezing temps are here

so today the landscape guys

rip out the flowers

lining the walk below 

from my window I see him bend

and yank entire plants up

chucking them root ball and all

into black plastic garbage cans

shoving them down to fit more

he makes quick work

of a twelve foot stretch

vibrant blooms peeking out 

from the can as he hoists it

to his shoulder and hauls it away

it seems such a waste—

a merciless, unnecessary razing

but these guys know their work

must know that in a week's time

the color will be gone

the flowers dry and dead

theirs is the preemptive mercy

of harvesting before the beauty fades

Dormancy

 Delicate reds and oranges

blaze to life on the hillsides

overshadowing this sleepy valley

drawing my lingering, longing gaze

every time I walk outside

I almost hear a silent chant

floating down into my waking dream

come up, come up, come up

Somnolescence holds me down

trapped here on the valley floor

looking back and whispering

I will, I will, I will

knowing full well that when I do

it will be too late

Melting Pot

 The Great American Melting Pot—

In order to melt, things have to get hot,

but lately, in spite of our heated debates

nobody seems to be melting these days.

Rather than melting—or softening even—

everyone's hardening, just digging in

the heat glances off hearts harder than stone

leaving us cold, angry, alone.

So despite scorching heat in increasing amounts,

it seems Mr Frost could be right on both counts:

Flaming others online with consuming desire

we'll all freeze from hate while the world is on fire.

Rescue

You leaned against the wall, feet
off the ground, propped on chairs
pushed up to the table, giggling,
chattering, continuing the giddiness
that had blessed today's breakfast, while
I buttered my toast across the kitchen,
attempting to keep up conversation, to keep up
with your good cheer. Then, 
somewhere between "Hey Google" 
and the reliable response, the switch flipped. 
A breathless, playful call for help, transformed
into a panicked, full-throated cry. 
Your balance had shifted. Everything became
precarious, unpredictable, threatening.
Google blithely rattled off the answer

to my now utterly irrelevant question, 
and I could only stand staring like a sailor
watching a sudden summer squall swamping the decks.
Those waves swept us both, powerless, overboard.
Feet safely back on the floor, you glared,
tearfully condemning me for  my betrayal:
How could I just stand there and watch,
consign you to the sea, to the depths,
and not save you? 
Survival was small consolation. 
Mutely accepting your wordless accusation,
I hoped only that I would be given another chance
the next time you need a rescue.