vacation

Perception

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she could be quoting my words
(from another time)
driving through the town with its decrepit
buildings, broken down cars
crashed in signs
and lack of traffic
i whisper across to him,
“what a dump.”
within five seconds
(the time it takes to remember
my favorite novel,
to recount the town’s significance,
to get to the other end)
she announces,
“what a cute little town.”

a day later
we sit on the porch
where two disabled neighbors wait
to board the
fifteen-passenger bus
with cracked windshield,
rust-covered roof,
and a muffler heard a mile away.
“look, it’s a limousine,”
the oldest daughter this time,
and i wonder if it
is my perception
or theirs
that is invalid.

We Have Won

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Twenty perfect pictures
A cry-free four hour drive
Thrilled squeals that last for miles
A dip in the end-of-maze pool
A local restaurant in a sea
Of red jerseys and sauce
On the way to the stadium
With an ocean of red jerseys and lust

It’s summer and the sun has set
On fourteen flights of stairs up
The arch glistens from city lights
Alongside the river of all rivers
Our room sees it and smiles with pride
For we have won, we have won,
Our team, us, them, we have won.

Little

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I have opened my wallet one too many times
but I just can’t help but pry it open once more.
it is for their eyes, sparkling and expectant,
and the polite smiles of the women who run
this little shop in this little town
that I will be leaving a little too soon.

with little brushes
little fingers
little hands
they paint.
an alligator as brightly decorated as a carousel horse
a miniature hat box with scribbled-out brown
a snake with dots and stripes and red eyes

they thank me
(all of them, the girls, the proprietors)
and the money,
it can’t capture their happiness,
so I’ll just tuck it here into this poem.

What I Miss from Denver

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microbrews (sweet and smooth)
that I can order anywhere I go
restaurants that have a decent meal
and are within fifteen minutes
the skyline with its cash register trademark
that I first saw at age seven
Starbucks (though I’m no daily-doser)
just for its frequency of availability
women on bicycles (though few)
so for once I can blend in
the absence of fleas, mosquitoes,
or any other recognizable insect
the peaks that keep their snow
into the middle of July
and the camaraderie of close friends
who wrap us up with happiness.

June Daughters

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Isabella

While at first reluctant,
you have given in to riding
our connected bicycle,
stating quite simply, in your
I’m-seven-and-overheard-your-conversation
voice, “I want to spend time with you.”
Your keen observations along the route,
of roads previously untraveled,
family sightings, and hill monitoring,
only add to the noticeably stronger
pedal power that you offer.
We beat them home and you are as
proud as a new mother, displaying our
connected contraption with hands
outspread in a beauty queen pose,
our time together warranted by
your everlasting desire to win
(oh how I already know you
will always, always win).

Mythili

We are at the beach.
It may be fake (a river turned into a lake),
but you have managed to discover
seashells in perfect conical shapes
(the ones I searched for in vain at the
real beach when I was your age).
We haven’t even made it to the car
(as usual, your lunch lies abandoned
on the table, limp, unwanted)
and you have entered the imaginary
world that has followed you with penne pasta,
fingers, barrettes, sticks, even earrings
everywhere you go, creating characters
with each shell, telling stories with
frightened-fairy tale plots, holding
complex conversations from snippets
of adult talk that you have captured.
You are immune to the outside world,
to the goings on of swimming or interacting
with your sisters, and have given in to
the world where you imagine yourself to be.

Riona

Nothing can thrill you more than the simplest
pleasures (the tiniest pieces of the bigger picture
that we, emptying our wallets, want to offer you).
Here we stand in the intolerable heat
of a midsummer southern day, and I cannot
snap enough pictures of the grin that exudes
happiness in its purest, rawest form, lighting
up your entire face brighter than the glaring
sun that beats down its midday punishment.
In your hands is the infant rabbit, fur as soft
as the skin on your new cousin’s cheek, that
causes you to abandon interest in all other animals
(doves that coo, clucking chickens,
miniature goats begging for food, ponies
with lofty lips who placidly pick feed from puny palms).
The genuinely gentle creature you hold in your arms,
pulling its nose to your chin, clutching it as if
it is your own child, perfectly encompasses
all that it is (everything you are) that I love about you.

Countdown (Backwards)

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One blog post to write with
Two sleepy-with-summer eyes for
Three sleeping soundly little girls who’ll have
Four days with me in the upcoming fortnight, though
Five days would make us all a bit happier, especially with
Six over-mountains hours separating us, though we can make it
Seven lonesome (for me) days until we meet again, especially with
Eight personally-picked items in each (never do this) gift bag for at least
Nine hours of enjoyment (I’m hoping for more), my heart will crack right at
Ten in the morning as they buckle in and take off, my loves with my lover for
Eleven time-with-extended-family, miss-them-already, counting-down-the-days.

Relish

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What’s not to love?
Peaches and blackberries from here
in JUNE
(I’ve met the farmer, seen the farm)
a petting farm the kids will never forget
the endless two lane roads that
lead to forests, lakes, rivers,
showing off idyllic red barns,
columnar farmhouses,
well-tamed cattle and horses,
and
peace.

What’s missing?
Traffic.
Light pollution.
Unfriendly city slickers.
The rush to get… anywhere, really.
People who don’t know you wherever you go.

What’s next?
Six more weeks of bike rides,
swimming in warm-water lakes,
exploring backcountry roads,
hiking in diversified forests,
and
relishing the place we never
thought that we could relish.

Writing (Riding)

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the sun is writing on my back
with an early morning marker
(yellow-orange, scented like
moist soil and ripened pollen)

and i am writing on my bike
as I take hill after sloping hill
under my tires, the curves beckoning
me to the end of the road.

there she waits, a giant sloth of
spring-muddy water creeping
toward the gulf, either side lush
with full-leafed hardwoods.

i wait for them here, moisture
writing on my back, as i relive
the momentous views, the perfect
ride that I never thought could be here.

the sun is higher now, writing across
the sky its midday mark of southern heat,
and they pop out of the car with hugs,
smiles that we will ride into the night.

The Vittetoe Express

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It’s June first (my mother’s birthday)
ninety degrees with a slight breeze
that makes this uphill ride tolerable,
and as I pedal along I catch sight of
our illustrious three-tiered shadow.

First me, silver helmet casting sparkles
against the cracked black pavement,
then Mythili on the tag-along, her frilly
dress flowing behind her seat like a
butterfly waiting to escape the heat,
and then the round caboose of the trailer
with Riona singing Christmas songs as I
shout, “Pedal!” when we come to the
bottom of another glorious hill.

Before we’ve even made it to the park
(the one with two playgrounds, a creek
where Elizabeth fetched the girls’ pollywogs,
a Frisbee golf course and exercise equipment),
we have turned every driver and pedestrian
with gaping rubbernecks bent in our direction, and
I have thought of a name for this silhouette of
bikes daisy-chained to one another in harmony:
The Vittetoe Express, a perfect train of thought,
a perfect train of happiness on this
perfect Kentucky summer day.

The Glory of the End

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the end is near and we
itch for its arrival,
vigilant as predatory cats,
tails switching,
mouths watering,
eyes glowering,
prepared to pounce on prey
that will only feed us
for the summer months,
when, just as last fall,
we must accept our
new layer of fur,
duck in and out of doors
during cold winter months,
and wait, wait, wait
for the glory of the end,
for warmth,
for spring.