The Day I Spent the Rest of my Summer Alone

Three Poems

The Day I Spent the Rest of My Summer Alone 

It’s so hot out here, it hurts.
She said, this can’t get worse.
I said, It’s the glare that makes you want to cry
and all these swarming gnats have got to die!

She said, Let me stand next to the road instead.
No one’s stopping for you - not even the inbred skin-heads.
I said, We’ve so far to go to get to Boston.
She said, It’s just past New York and then some.

I said, Coming back, we could hike in the Appalachians
or walk the beaches along the ocean.
She said, You have a thing for Southern gals in swimsuits with backpacks.
And you, I said, you love boys pretending they’re men driving their daddies’ Cadillacs.

We could never be together.
She said, Certainly I’ve been with better hitchhikers.
I said, Then why do I even try?
Admit it, she said, you want to be with me, that’s why.

Standing here’s silly, I said, Do we need to go to your stuck-up friend’s wedding? 
I can think of a ton of better things
we could do with our time, like pitch my tent in that field over there and crawl inside.
Hell no, She said, I am so tired of sweating night-after-night by your side,

I just want a car with air conditioning
and a tape deck with the Stones playing.
--And that Elliot, I said, Elliot’s a pompous ass, why’s Jennifer marrying him?
Jenn’s like me, she said, always attracted to the wrong men.

The way Elliot puts her down, I said, I give it a year.
She said, That’s what Jenn said about us here --
me traveling with you through the South.
We’d kill each other before the summer’s out.

That is, I said, If we don’t fry like eggs and grits on this road,
or dumped in a river after some yahoo’s psychotic episode.
Thanks, she said, I need to be thinking that. You’ve such a horrible imagination.
I said, See that gas station? I’m going to beg the toothless attendant for some aspirin.

If you do, 
she said, take your cruddy tent and sleeping bag too. 
If a convertible stops for me with the windows down,
the AC blowing, and the Stones playing loud,

I’m leaving you.
Ha! I said, I dare you!

****

What She Carries

After she packs, we sneak things
into her backpack to lighten the heft,
secret notes from those she’s left behind.
folded messages bright with possibilities 
for when she reaches into her pack,
tiny butterflies so quick to unfold 
in the face of a prevailing wind, reminding her 
what she's seen, where she’s been. 

Her mother likes to hide twenty dollars
in the outside pocket,
though we know she won’t spend it -
our adventurer never uses cash -
but we want her to have options -
when she needs coffee 
or cheap tortilla wraps.

Near her water bottle, we hide 
a small bundle of fresh Loblolly needles.
She’s found these before and it makes her laugh.
The scent meant to remind her wherever she goes
to touch the cusp of one of the twin shafts 
and think of the trees surrounding her home.
We tell her, let it quiver to divine your path.

In the inside compartment above her clothing,
food stuff, stove, sandals and such, we whisper
stories of her growing up, laughter, long conversations,
and lovingly tighten these down, along with a picture 
of her dog and us to hold at the end of a tough hike, 
to savor, too, the special memories of when we carry 
from the airport that well-traveled pack.
She‘s the one we dearly hug and welcome back. 

**** 

Time in a Jar looks Good from Afar

Scooping unused minutes,
I press them into a jar,  
but then, I always skim 
my fingers across the rim
for syrupy sips of freedom.

I worry that licking fingers-
full of untried existence
creates too blissful a vision,
a daily addiction, savoring
saccharin fiction. 

Why pry open the lid,
touch jeweled drips
sliding in sticky streams?
Why can’t I give up the head games,
wash my fingers clean.

If only I could indulge 
in just enough to dream
a sweet fulfilled future, 
to stifle the scream, 
Satiate the hunger.

****