… rantings of a depressive procrastinator. Did I mention, I write? …

Children of Nimrod

Chairs dragged out of the kitchen
rasp on the sagging porch,
creak beneath storytellers—fanning—, wanting
cool evening air drifting up from the Deep Fork.

Sweaty children sprawl on the grass,
wait for a game to call them up,
deep into the shadows, dark cool shadows.

Doves in the alley coo in damp ditches
far away train whistles
Dusk bright with stars in the round, purpling sky.

Buddy in the elm tree calls out,
“Lightening bugs . . . .
                                  . . . . out by the garden. . . .
Can I have a fruit jar, Grandma?”

Flickering gold sparks
                         glint above bushes,
                                                fly out of reach of
salt-smelling fingers,
                         teasing the children
                                                right above arm’s length.

Children of Nimrod—caught in a moment
of lightening bug summer—whooping victorious.

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