Ramble 2
The glide of ballet slippers
Across the hardwood floors.
The peppery smell of Brazillian food
And faint chatter of portugese
Coming from down the hallway.
The sticky sap from the pine trees
Smeared across the skinny trunks
In the front yard.
The big tree crashing down on the roof
And having to be cut down.
The nature made teepee
In back by the quanset buried in the trees.
The smell of stale smoke and age
So overwhelming in the summer kitchen.
Iron Butterfly,
Inagadadavita.
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers,
Wild Flowers.
Sitting on the fence post by the road,
Drinking in every ounce of the
Unfolding, darkening horizons.
Dust flying on country roads.
The heavy heat,
And irreplaceable high
Stemming from the Washington Co Fair.
Fridays spent at Pat and Mikes
Eating the best cheeseburgers in town
With the old men who went fishing
In Canada every summer.
Neopolitan ice cream sandwiches.
Stockings hung over the fireplace.
Heavy snow and howling winds
Drifting the driveway for days.
A remarkable sense of family.
Togetherness.
Trust.
The sterile smell of the hospital.
The constant beeping of machines.
The long, quiet car rides.
The sick, knotted stomach.
The regret.
The despair.
The angst.
The hot, sticky San Antonio heat.
The worry.
The tears.
Not making it home in time.
A long weekend away from home.
Mostly spent in tests.
No sitting next to the opposite sex.
ATL.
Why Did I Get Married?
Mike signing satin converse low tops.
Youth Emergency Services.
The heavy slam of electric locks.
The musty smell of old concrete.
Girls screaming and laughing
In corresponding cells.
“You don’t belong here.”
Crying long into the night .
Grass stained toes
On lace less tennis shoes.
Shackles.
Omaha Nebraska.
50th and Dodge.
Roaming the streets into the
Early morning hours.
Hotel parties and snorting pills
Off of the counter tops.
Thunder.
The harsh Grand Prix cigarettes.
Long hours spent mobbing around town
Street lights passing by in glimpses
And living for nothing but
The here and now.
90mph down Dodge street,
Having the best Christmas
One could ever ask for.
Crying from an adjacent room.
A little Mexican boy who smiles.
Five girls in one room.
A window that doesn’t have an alarm.
The Number 23.
Fifteen year old Sierra,
Needing subliminal guidance.
Torn, broken families.
A Mexican boy who walks funny
From being gunned down.
Angel.
“Are you trying to run?
Why don’t you use the front door?”
Running down 42nd street,
Arms full,
Not stopping until safely hidden.
Calling for a ride.
The thick marijuana smoke,
Hanging heavy in the air.
The sound of girls excited laughter,
And hurried shouts of plans.
100mph down the interstate.
2am.
No front windows.
Early March.
Suix City Iowa.
A blossoming relationship,
And drunken squirrels.
Almost being extrodited,
But meeting God instead.
“This is hell,
It just ain’t burnin’ yet.”
A fat blunt and two Budweiser beers.
Living on the run.
Sharing a Thelma and Louise outlook
With young Sierra.
Alternating ....
Unfinished
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