Monday, April 18, 2011

Any Florida Saturday.


Love’s in the dusty gospel radio station
in Polk County, it shone on with the sunroof sun.
It’s wrapped up in pulled pork sandwiches sold
at the roadside smoke hut in small amounts,
more so in that morning’s homemade
banana pudding, two vanilla wafers on top.
It’s in stories from a woman 40 years smarter than I
and a dog younger than us both, his head resting on
her shoulder comfortably as a fall cardigan.
It’s even in the bagged radishes, the young squash,
the two-toned corn and so many soft season-end strawberries.

“Can men and women be friends past a certain age?” she asked,
already quite convinced of her answer.

Who am I to know? Who am I to have learned?

I let her believe what’s right, still think her pretty
in all the ways a fragile bird is
lead her down the steps without more words
know we’ll never be more or less than we are.




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