All Summer
after“What’s LoveGottoDo?” by Richard Blanco
All summer I wander between houses, couches, in and out of Dil and Lil’s secondhand Murano, air conditionless, legs suctioned to the seats / Radio set to whatever isn’t static, most days Spanish, Mexican horns blaring, pushing down three-lane highways and rural dirt roads / All summer I am seeking re encounters, reminders of why I come home, Wednesday walks in Woodland Cemetery, Sunday lunch dates at the coffee shop that taught me how to hold my caffeine, the one folks flocked to when Starbucks was flopped down by the highway because fuck capitalism and its infiltration of small towns / All summer I am running to people excited about their shy cat and Cupid sexcapades or the job they hate that allows them to travel or the job they love that doesn’t pay, or the coworker who watches Twilight stoned every Sunday / All summer I am asking myself how I will have enough money to eat out again, but then I am at Ajanta again, at Alicia’s Ethiopian again, at the speakeasy with lighting that makes me squint like my grandma, phone flashlight poised to read the menu / All summer I am flipping from floor mat to futon, breathing in cat hair, forgetting to turn the fan on the lights off in my brother’s new apartment, in my friend’s cramped studio / They ask if I like the eggshell paint in the bathroom, the ebony accented dresser, stretch smiles when I say I prefer not to live in black and white / All summer I throw out old clothes, old shoes, get my skin checked, teeth cleaned, hug neighbors, kiss parents / Change clothes in parking lots, hide keys in flower pots
Originally published in A Personal History of Home: An Anthology
Home Again
When I flew back after ten months,
I made my mom swear
the doorknobs and light switches
weren’t two inches lower than before.
The drive into my town never changes
but there is a dollar store branch where
Kelly Auto always pumped
my bike tires for free.
Elliott is three inches taller
and Luna has a full set of teeth.
The backyard honeysuckle is all torn out,
a stone patio nested in its place. Yet,
the same shoes litter the laundry room,
snack cupboard persistently bare of junk food.
Mom still sneaks off to bed
while Dad stays snoring on the couch.
Buehler’s Grocery sign continues boasting
the best egg salad in the county, and
black coffee remains two dollars
at The Daily Grind where
childhood friends in grown-up clothes
perch to prattle about my fabulous time away.
World traveler, bird with no legs, they say
the resemblance is uncanny.
Originally published in From Arthur’s Seat