SUMMERS WITH DANNY AND SUSAN
SUMMERS WITH DANNY AND SUSAN
They appeared each June-libation just before I turned to dust,
two little towhead saviors peering over the station wagon dash
like prairie dogs. Now I think I may have made them up, the aqua
days of pools and riding in Mrs. Winterbottom’s mower cart,
through the streets of our new complex, waving like parade grand masters
at the denizens of newborn split-levels and crisp ranch-styles
with seedling yards.
We played among the piles of dirt, weaved between the ribs
of skinless houses despite the taint of rusty nails and splintered wood
that builders leave behind, until we fell agape into a mound of sand.
The grit was strange against my teeth and ringed my lips in stucco.
If only I had thought to leave some trace among the scaffolds that we were
there, tan and ocher like the dancing petroglyphs made by aborigines
who used the very earth to stencil rocks, hardy cliff dwellers
who dared to chew the loam and spit still life on canyon walls.