Random 2014 Pix

Wiz with the Sciz

so much more than a haircut

entertaining
energizing
neuroses exchange

hip hop hipster

be-bop bipster
talk of the hood

banter spills out

fast, faster,
snip-snap snipster
clumps of bray hair
hit the black and white checkered floor

a quiet man listens on the zebra striped bench

chartreuse molding collects curlicues of dark hair

“Stigs” says the Wiz

my grandfather
the greatest ballplayer on the planet
he lived in Kingston
people said he was shit.

Small World

She knew she would be hit
she didn’t know how hard
she made the left turn
but felt, saw, from the side of her eye,
the blinding lights headed at her
no time to stop
or speed up
or re-think the turn into the library.

Rainy night

red lights of traffic glistening
all around her
the car stopped
the engine off
the radio off
acrid, dark smoke filled the car
air bag detonation.

The man appeared at her window

helped her out
are you ok?
then the police
then moving Opal off the road
then the tow arrangements
How to get home?
the man offered to take her.

She went to drop the book in the slot

her library errand complete
she got in the truck with the man
who’d just smashed her car
he was kind
they picked up his son
from Drivers Ed class
she mentioned she was a new Grandmother.

He asked her where she lived

sure I know where that is
the three drove along
packed closely in the front seat of the truck
She and the man who smashed Opal and the teenaged son
small talk
father and son talk
they got closer to her house

Right at the church

up the hill
a little further
left – here.
that’s where you live?
with JR?
small world
I built that deck for him 25 years ago.

Ole man Winter Bustin Thru

ole man winter bustin thru our wimpy autumnal defenses
nubby swirling capes with arms free, and smart berets soon will not cut it
where’s the dry skin cream hid?
where be the gloves, the leggings, the chap stik?
close up the windows
plastic, caulk, cover them
let no air in
line up the soups in the cupboard
empty the fuzzballs from the old boots

tomatoes sprawl rotten in the garden
yet the almighty and faddish kale

still stands tall and vigilant
the deer family roams slowly,

dressed in dark, dull coats
perusing the compost

nibbling on the tired rhododendrons

check the tires! the furnace!
the antifreeze!

ole man winter headin our way.
11/14/14

November Hurtles Past

a birthday
a wedding
a turkey
a wake
To be silly and seven and love
strawberry shortcake with blue frosting
and silly string in your hair and take a
long, long time to make your wish.

a birthday
a wedding
a turkey
a wake
love and joy and bounty of food
music for rockers, rappers and geezers
family and tribe sharing

joy and hopes
shaking hands at the seafood buffet, sealing up
the ten year crack generated by a garbage pail in the driveway

a birthday
a wedding
a turkey
a wake
a turkey for five, not eight or ten
thankful for the cancer free screening
thankful for those here and not here
not thankful for the death call in the morning
 
a birthday
a wedding
a turkey
a wake
why do they call it a wake?
the person in the box, the one you chatted up last week
you kissed his handsome nephew cheek

the one who shook hands and made the truce of the decade

at the wedding loud and playful
lies far from awake.
the small giggling boy, the thoughtful husband,

devoted father, smitten grandpa
so respected, so loved, so missed.
a birthday
a wedding
a turkey
a wake

Loathsome Squirrels

I loathe squirrels.  But more about that later.  I truly enjoy the word “loathe”. 

It feels superior to “hate”, which is a short, choppy, forthright invective. 
Loathe… it fairly rolls off one’s tongue with disdain; distancing is inherent, understood. 
Loathe says more. 
I was taught that hate is a strong word – be careful how you use it.  I believe that, in order to hate a person, you have to have had really strong feelings about the person in the first place.  And what if you didn’t?  Then you could just loatheeeeeeeeeeee them…or it.

But then, if that person had really strong feelings for you, and you wanted to get away from them, well then they could very well “hate” or plot vengeance or a vendetta or, at the very least, they could have some dark thought(s) and plan (concentrate) some weirdness to happen to you.  Not necessarily dangerous things, but enough to put a scare in you and make you wonder why….and I wouldn’t call this voodoo or anything that extreme, but well, I think I was under this dark kind of spell for a period of time.  And I know who did it, and I believe it to be true.  But it’s taken me a lot of years to come to this belief.  Mostly because, well, the things that happened to me during that period of time were, well, so very odd.

I once had a squirrel drop out of a tree and fall on my head.  It kinda slid thru my hair and plopped with a splash at my feet in the water.  I was standing knee deep in a lake, talking with a friend.  Ever see a wet squirrel?  Don’t ask. There was a lot of screaming and splashing and running involved. 
For years I had a loathsome reaction to squirrels.  I never thought about why.  A person would say something like “Oh look at the squirrel – isn’t he cute?”
Cute?  CUTE! 
“Rat with a tail” I would spit out vehemently. 

Recently the falling squirrel story tumbled out to a co-worker.  Aha!  Yes, I have a reason (if I need one) to loathe squirrels and then somehow the story of the fish on my windshield came up at the same time.  Was it time to dump my weird animal stories?  Could I possibly interpret this, after all this time, into some deeper meaning?  Well, the fish story happened probably within a year, or maybe it was the same year, of the squirrel falling on my head.

I was on my way home early one evening to my remote log cabin, tucked away in the woods. It was still light enough to see the remains of the day as I made the turn and slowed to coast down the small hill.  SPLAT!  I couldn’t identify what it was immediately.   I mean, who would expect a fish to land on your windshield?  But then I clearly saw it and I slowed down, pulled into the short, rutted area I called a driveway and got out and saw it and then I got a small spade and a dust pan and I kind of scraped it off the windshield into the dustpan and I took it down to the lake and threw it in.  And I didn’t know what to think and so I put it out of my head, just because it was too weird to make sense and other things were taking up more room in my mind.

But the next day when I mentioned this to my bosses and a coworker – all men – they gave me a strange look.  Tom, the Italian guy said “Ooo – that’s bad, I mean it’s like “sleeping with the fishes or something.” I couldn’t take that seriously.  Various theories ensued but the one I went with all these years, was that a passing seagull or hawk or something had inadvertently dropped the fish as he was flying up from the lake, and it dropped on my car.  Okay, logical,  done. 

And there was that other incident involving a lake and the man’s car going in it, and the Chinese food and the new trench coat I had on, but that's probably another story, another time…

Miscellaneous poetic ramblings

Rhinestones on my mind

Not a rhinestone cowboy

not Glenn Campbell on my mind

 

Rhinestones on my mind

No kidney stones

Gall stones

Kept in a jar

 

Rhinestones

Stoner

Stonehenge

Someone I once knew

had an Uncle Stony

 

Rhinestones on my mind

Rolling Stones

Healing stones

Skippin’ stones

 

Stone soup

Stone’s throw

Sticks and stones

Breaking bones

 

Rhinestones on my mind

on my neck

Sparkle on

Sparkle forever

 

 

fun with the fammies

Too much hammies

put her in the jammies

better than the whammies...

 

 

 

 

Al's Box O' Thrills

Neighbor Essay
Home #4

A year after our newlywed status, I asked James to move out. My status changed to “separated single.” I’d never lived by myself before. 

My landlords Al and Sonia lived upstairs, a family of four, or five, or six, depending on which of the boys got kicked out, and whether or not the husband came home.

They had a black Labrador retriever named Monty who picked up tools left lying around the house or the driveway, and buried them diligently in the yard.  Many times, I saw my landlord Al muttering and digging in the yard, retrieving his tools.  They were a rowdy bunch. Sonia, his wife, wore dark glasses outside, and didn’t stop to chat with the other faded house-dressed women in the neighborhood.  She favored bright patterned silk scarves, wound around her head and tied in the back, a la Jackie Onassis.  She wore a trench coat most of the time. 

Al was a cross between John Wayne in swagger and size, and Robert Mitchum in rugged good looks, with that bad boy, intrigue a-foot grin.  He was the self-appointed good will ambassador of the block.  The ladies could be seen hanging onto their front fences smiling broadly for Al, as he walked past the brick row houses.  He had a greeting for them all, talked to everyone, often and long, if you asked too many questions.



Years later, he would turn up as a stage hand on the David Letterman show.  Still some swagger, but more years added in the gut, thicker glasses, a tamped down look about him. Dave regularly exchanged banter with Backstage Al.  Occasionally, the viewers would catch a glimpse of Al, laconically smiling behind the curtain.  The banter developed into a skit called Al’s Box o’ Thrills, where Dave would say “Ok, Al, what’ve you got for me tonight? I’m ready – go!”  And Al would pull a rope off stage, and all sorts of stuff would get dumped out of a giant box over Dave’s head – things like roses or dog biscuits or confetti or something.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2v8fDJSiOEY

 

Anyway, Al and Sonia had three teenage sons and a prepubescent daughter who wore the tightest pants in the world, and lots of pancake make up, making her look like a china doll.  None of the kids spoke to me, though I was barely five years older than any of them. I guess they thought I was a grownup.

In the corner of my bedroom in the apartment in which I tried not to be afraid by myself, was a locked door (situated behind the armoire), that led to the upstairs apartment. I awoke one night to the sounds of a ruckus upstairs.  One of the boys had come home drunk and his mother was letting him have it.  Al got up and got involved, adding his loud voice to the mix. Then there was a scuffle, maybe the boy tripped, or fell backwards over the rail that I knew to be in their kitchen.  He ended up tumbling down the stairs.  My heart stopped, and then thumped and pounded and raced in a panic.  Would he, in desperation, try to come through the door?  What should I do?  I couldn't breathe; couldn't utter a sound. I did what I’d done as a child if I heard a noise somewhere in the house: closed my eyes and pulled the covers over my head.  Was it forever or just a minute that I waited breathlessly?  I never heard him get up.  I never heard Al or Sonia come down the stairs.  All became quiet.  Did he sleep the night in the stairwell, crumpled in a heap, with a wooden stair for a pillow?  I fell asleep.  

But that winter, newly separated from my husband, I met another neighbor.  He gave me a lift in his car one snowy morning as I waited for the bus to get to the subway. The car was a twenty five year old custom Cadillac with gadgets and widgets like I’d never seen before.  He was very proud of his car; it drove like a smooth sailing ship through the streets of Manhattan.  He was tall and rangy and very friendly.  That spring, he left one of his puppies at my door with a note – please name me and I’ll keep you company. Of course I couldn’t have a puppy, but Leo, (who I named for my astrological sign) and I fell in love, and he stayed over often, even though he did his usual puppy things all over the apartment.  After one particularly large puppy load which I attempted to flush down the toilet with a lot of paper towels, I created a big plumbing problem.  I called upstairs for help, but of course made sure to get Leo out of the house first.  Al came to the rescue.  I could not admit to the puppy being the problem, but was mortified wondering what Al might find.  I guess he formed his own conclusions.  But he never asked me about James no longer living there. 

Big Al passed away just last year, remembered for being the Dad of five children and a wife of decades.  I learned that he’d been an Air Force pilot in WWII and had flown 37 missions over enemy territory.  His obit said he’d been trained by Air Force instructor Jimmy Stewart (yes, the actor).

Screaming Woman, Man with Gloves

Neighbor Essay #3

It was the same neighborhood but I started to see it, and hear it, differently.  There was the usual blend of grown-ups and kids; some had more than others.  Mrs. Collins down the block had three boys and wanted a girl so bad that she was always putting her scarf on her head and going to church and praying for a girl.  Mother said “be careful what you wish for” cause she had four girls and knew how much trouble they were, but Mrs. Collins prayed hard and often, and before you know it, she had a girl.  She named her Mary, as she had promised the Blessed Mother she would (she had two more girls after that, but Mother said she hadn’t prayed for them).

There was the short man who wore white gloves all the time and held his hands up in the air kind of, and walked with his mother, even though he was a grown up himself and he didn’t talk to anyone.  And there was Eddie, who had beautiful smooth tan skin and happy eyes, but my Mother said not to get too friendly with him.

The new apartment was larger and lighter.  It had a front room that we called the porch, with windows facing onto the street; the TV was there, and Mother had her African violets on the windowsills.  It was just big enough for two chairs and a small bookcase.  In later years, that room would be a safe haven for boyfriends, situated as it was, at the very front of the railroad style apartment and out of hearing range from the kitchen where my father sat every night after dinner.  Our new landlords had an overweight cocker spaniel named Ginger who didn’t like kids, and had to be carried up the flight of stairs, because something was wrong with her. The landlady’s huffing and puffing, together with her humming, (why doesn’t she get a tune, Mother would say) was a familiar and annoying sound to us. 

My sister and I shared a narrow bedroom, right off the kitchen.  We had twin beds with carved pineapp-ley things as bed posts.  My bed, closest to the door, overshot the doorway by a few inches, so the door could not close.  The window in our bedroom faced the downstairs apartment next door, with an alleyway in between that led to two garages in the back of the houses.  The alleyway was so narrow that Fred the landlord scraped the side of his car more than once as he backed out of the garage. My mother said he should get new glasses.

In the apartment across the alleyway lived a pale young woman named Vivian, with her two pale faced toddler children who had startlingly whitish, blond hair. Her skin was the whitest I’d ever seen and it stretched tight across her face and her pointy nose. She was very thin and narrow and she wore dark, narrow skirts and crisp shirts.  She was rarely seen in the neighborhood, and hardly spoke to anyone if she did. My mother said if she took the children out once in a while, they would get some color in their faces. 

There were early mornings when the sun was barely up, and some evenings when it was just going down, in warmer weather, when private sounds carried chillingly across the narrow alleyway through the windows, cracked open to catch a soft spring breeze. 

It began with the muffled sounds of the children crying or yelling or fighting with each other.  And then she would start yelling and it would get louder and louder, until the wobbly screeching of her voice filled me with terror.  It was different from my mother’s screams, or maybe we are inured to our own family dramas.  Her screams would soon be mixed with the sound of the toddlers, quietly sobbing.  My sister and I would press our pillows over our heads to escape the sound, wishing it to stop. 

It became a part of our lives, and one that we never got used to. 

The Purple Pick and the Meaty Hand

I found a guitar pick today to add to my collection.  My guitar pick collection is very small; my daughter used to mock me to her friends during her teenaged years, saying

"My mother thinks anything over two is a collection" 

She's almost right.  I think my guitar pick collection is up to five or six.  Though I fear I may have used one in an art piece.  I hope not.  Anyway, though I am artistic, I have no musical talent whatsoever, but am intrigued by those who do. I have musician envy.  I even went so far as to live with a musician at one point in my life, but the four years only served to prove to me that they think differently than most, and I couldn’t grasp the thought patterns.  Well, that was one thing that was proved.

Each time I find one (guitar pick, not musician)  I imagine where it came from and who was he or she?  What do they play and how much passion do they have?  Are they serious musicians?  Do they get paid for what they do or would they play anywhere, anytime, just to be playing?  What kind of music do they play?  Is it folky?  Rock and roll?  bluesy?  Where do they come from and where will they go?  
This one is purple. I think I have a red and a green and a brown.   So purple is good.
and it more than makes up for being sent on "an errand" at my advanced age.  But I welcomed the walk and felt lucky to find the pick in the parking lot.   As I will feel lucky tonight if the electric goes back on, cause this is tedious as hell trying to type by candle light.  Besides, the battery will die very soon and then I will be left with all these words stuck in my head and have to try and go to sleep at nine o clock at night which will be a really hard thing for me to do.  So while I can, I will type fast, even though I can’t get on line to post this probably until tomorrow,  and tomorrow is Halloween and I was just in the middle of making the Meaty Hand for the creepy, scary food fest at work tomorrow.  The meaty hand was such a hit last year, everyone is looking forward to it again, but now what will I do if the power doesn’t come back again, maybe even not in the morning? 

 

 

 

 

Stolen Monday

Mondays loom heavy on Sunday nights and invite a panoply of wide ranged feelings.  Dread mixed with duty; resignation blended with responsibility;  rebellion matched by determination.  For some, there may be enthusiasm. Hooray for them! I have known that in the past, and I have known the opposite.  Either way, its fine fodder for writing.

This was written in 2010.

A stolen Monday by dint of the white lie

Up all night I say sounding wan and done in
I won’t be in today
And now, the only thing I miss
about the office is the warmth
as I sit in several layers blowing on my hands
Fasting today, having cleansing on my mind,
soothing my spirit, gathering my old self
Wherever it has scurried away to.
Create, smile, sip tea
ignore the scent of morning toast,
the imagined sound of crunching, tooth to jaw
Tomorrow is another day
there will be toast then
Today is myself manufactured
anything today
Apply for jobs,
Write, draw
Organize, communicate with friends
take a long walk
feel the day
Mondays can be so nice

 

Mae

Neighbor Essay #2  Mae

We moved to a smaller apartment. My sister Marge was about to be married within the year and we could get a smaller apartment.  It was a different neighborhood, different schools, different nuns, with different habits.  Our uniforms changed from green to navy blue, but still they were jumpers with pleated skirts, and the same slightly yellowed white nylon blouses worn under it. The beanie and the saddle shoes completed the outfit. Again, we had a landlady downstairs, and constant reminders from our mother about “lift your feet” and “hush your big mouth.”  We were well used to it. 

The apartment was narrow and dark, but Mother was friendly with Mae, the landlady, and so it was deemed okay.  Mae worked as a postal clerk, in the drugstore on the avenue, just around the corner  and down a couple of blocks. When you entered the drugstore, you walked to the back of the store, and there in the left corner of the store was a carved out spot that looked like a teller’s window at the bank.  All day “Mae” sat behind that window with the bars, on her high stool, and sold stamps and handled parcel post deliveries.  Whenever my mother sent me for stamps, Mae (or Mrs. Campbell as I called her) would say cheerily “Hello Dear, what can I do for you?” 

Sometimes I worried that she had overheard my sister and I yelling or fighting or that she may have heard me crying in the bathroom after my mother scolded me for yet another infraction.  Mrs. Campbell had tightly curled hair of a sandy color and a lot of large spread out freckly areas on her face.  She had a fierce double chin that wobbled over the top of her blouses and sweaters that she wore over her shoulders and held on with a chain like thing across her chest. Her pink, shiny cheeks didn’t have freckles, and her gold rimmed glasses held onto the end of her nose.

She wore brown or green most of the time.  But the most curious thing about her was her hands, or more particularly, the palms of her hands.  They were very pink and soft looking and reminded me of roast beef, the rare kind that we only ate around the holidays and special occasions.  I watched them closely when she counted out my change and handed me the stamps.

A couple of years after we moved in, Mae decided to raise the rent, and broke the news to my mother as they played cards and drank beer downstairs in her kitchen one Friday night, which they did often. “You understand Margie, cost of living and all that.”  Later that night when Mother came back upstairs, we heard the news from our bedroom, right off the kitchen, where my father sat smoking and working on his crossword, a can of beer at his side.

 

“And she just kept eating her pretzels” Mother yelled to Dad in that loud whisper she used when she didn’t want us to hear. “That’s it, we’re moving” she announced. It didn’t matter much to me, but my sister and I both wished she had found something a little farther away. 

We moved next door. 

 

Boys from school teased me unmercifully about the move “Think you’ll be able to find your way home after you move?” followed by their doubling over with exaggerated, hysterical laughter. We moved from a second floor apartment, to the first floor apartment next door.  I liked that idea, it meant the landlady would have to lift her feet and my mother wouldn’t always be yelling about that. “Ha”, my sister said smugly “she’s the landlady, she can walk around with heavy boots on if she wants to.”

The houses were built no more than one foot from each other.  All day, as my father and brothers-in-law and older sisters went up and down the stairs, in and out of the gates, I roller skated and stayed out of the way.  That night, my sister and I dressed in our pajamas which had been left in our empty rooms, brushed our teeth, walked next door, and went to bed in our new apartment.  After several months of passing each other on the sidewalk without so much as a nod, Mother and Mae made up and returned to the occasional Friday night card games and cans of Schlitz, though Mother always said Rheingold was better.

 

One Year of Blogamy

Today I celebrate one year of Blogamy……….last year when I started this blog, I committed to posting each month, and at least 3-4 times a month.  I believe I have kept to that.  And I like the challenge and I like the discipline, and it forces me to polish things up a bit more and to drag out of my head the swirling and at times, muddled, thoughts and get them down on paper. 

Thank you to all who follow FernJive 65 (or check on it from time to time.) I am grateful to you all.

Tonight I post Neighbor # 2 from the Neighbors Essays series and also a couple of random entries.

Here’s my website: http://fernsuessartetc.wordpress.com/  if you want to check out some art, photography or poetry.  All these endeavors will be combined at some point in the coming year. 

 

People watching in Uptown Kingston on a sunny lunchtime afternoon.

In Kingston, one can still spot a gentleman of a certain age with a jacket and a tie, even a bright patterned ascot peeping out from the pocket of his sharp, crisp navy blue suit.

A tall young woman, stretched even taller in her long slinky black dress and slightly muddied sagging boots, sports her hair cropped short, revealing a dark snakelike tattoo emerging from her hairline behind her ear and disappearing into her dress; she desultorily texts as she wends her way down the block.

The sound of September flip-flops is heard alongside the soft tread of moccasins, underlying the natty snap, tap of shiny, black loafers.

A hastily scrawled sign in the Indian restaurant says thank you for your business; we have gone to New Paltz.  It seems determinedly mysterious and vague.  The “Girls” restaurant is closed for repairs.  A newly opened Mexican restaurant serves up tepid water and long waits for recognition.  One cannot seem to get served there.  The old favorite café sends out waves of meat grilling  aromas and toasted paninis to the sidewalk where yellow jackets will vie for your lunch if you are lucky enough to grab a place at the one sidewalk table.

There are painted peacocks everywhere.  They stand three feet tall and proud, rooted in special tubs along the sidewalks, in front of the shops.  There are blues and greens, of course, but also golds and swirls and buildings of brick and skies and clouds and words, all portrayed on the peacocks’ wide fantails, with the imagination of several local artists.  Soon they will be headed to auction; their bids donated to a new playground at the nature center park. 

Familiar faces offer a glimmer of recognition, though they may not know each other’s names. Tourist faces crane their necks to read the dates on top of the 19^th century buildings, pleased by the pastel colors and frescoes.  Church bells peal; the streets are crammed with local buses, repair trucks, cruising police cars looking out for drug deals.   A well-known politicians passes and smile, with a freshly manufactured nod of recognition. 

She offers up an arugula leaf to the yellow jackets and soaks up the sun a little longer. 

 

She Had Been Here Before

She had been here before,

in this grey washed, shadowy limbo
where her skin didn’t quite fit,                                                                                      
promising rewards to herself just for showing up at work
Giving herself busy work to avoid interacting with anyone
Stretching the morning-robust coffee with bitter refills until lunch time.
Going on chocolate breaks to bend the afternoon toward five o clock;

She had cried before on the way to work

interrupting the flow in order to see the stop signs
stretching her mouth into a smile to test the adage
one cannot cry if one is smiling
hoping  that a passing car will not look her way
to see the strange mask she wears

She had reprimanded herself plenty then, as now

Wake-up words: lucky to have a job in this economy;
it’s not that bad; you have your health (well, kinda);
your kids are doing well (pretty much)

She had retreated this way before,

Friday nights into Monday mornings, hibernation-mode; house cocoon
pajamas, no bra, no make-up,
Lurching from coffee, laundry, vacuuming, books, art, into
snacking, folding, reading, wine, dinner, clean-up, Scrabble online, Free Cell, Netflix

She had stayed up nights this way before,
ignoring the clock , the yawns, the absence of posts on facebook
as everyone else sensibly pressed their ears,
the burning eyes as she struggled to empathize with the Walker family on Brothers and Sisters;
she had postponed sleep this way before, because it led to the waking up part
which led to the job part.

She had gotten out of this before

escaped the vise like grip of the downhill nutcracker
Without losing too much dignity or gaining too much weight,
or alienating too many friends who just wanted her to smile at them
and laugh with them and tell them she was fine.

She had been here before
when she couldn’t offer him a smile to ease the grey that was often
darker than hers
when she couldn’t offer the platitudes, the smidgen of hope, the pep-talk
the spiritual bent, the clown-like jocularity
she had been here before when she needed him
to offer those stepping stones, those life preservers of optimism to her
but he could not

She had been here before and she didn’t want to re-visit.

Like the soured memory of a bad vacation, she longed…to break away
Not reenter the dwindling self-confidence
The pungent flavor of unease
the hollowness, the absence of life’s joy
She had been here before
and she needed to retreat.

3 Autumnal Haikus

               

 

monday rain falling

orange leaves flutter sadly

autumn worrying

 

four o’clock grey time

rustling footsteps approaching

golden glow surrounds

 

 

pond commotion stills

katydids, tadpoles soundless

tranquility sad

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Autumn

What’s All the S--- about Glorious Freakin’ Autumn?

Why all the waxing beatific over colored leaves?

And pulling out gnarly sweaters
from ten years ago in hopes they’ll resemble
the current fluffy flock of
boiled wool smelly pullovers?

All the petunias shriveling,

teetering pathetically on
scrawny browned stems
like old men on tanned limbs,
embarrassed alongside
predictable mums wearing couture colored faces

Everyone sauntering with
thick socks showing
bragging about cool nights and good sleeping
or the smell of wood stove’s hickory stink
(as though ham were in vogue)

Summer’s vegetables sprawl exhausted
like swollen nine month women
everyone giving or receiving or cooking
or baking or refusing or throwing away…zucchini.
exchanging recipes and ‘putting up'.

Paranoid squirrels careen
from tree to shaking tree
miserly gathering acorns
pitching excess on our heads
Everyone is looking brown and orange              

And the mandatory talk about
winter’s coming
and snow and ice
old accidents
new trepidations
Winters that were,
childhoods that weren’t
mitten clips, chapped lips
cold feet looking for warm feet
pumpkin pies, garlic jam
raking leaves, runny noses

What's all the shit about glorious freaking autumn?