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American Summer

Poems written while traveling.

  Tartamudeo


1:  Sacramento

Mexican gardener in the afternoon
heat—hooded sweatshirt, leafblower,
intermittent hum rumble, then none.
The sounds of my grandson—
horseplay in his plastic pool.


2:  Curtis Park

A slight breeze disturbs
a stillness in the sycamores.
Sunday morning leisure—
a park in repose.  The morning
glories electric blue salutations.


3:  Grass Valley (moon shadow)

The evening sheltered by
grandiose pines (black silhouettes,
black silhouettes).  The moon
tangled in an old, spreading oak.
Crickets, stars, dark splendor.


4:  Sacramento

Drifting in the grand munificence
of an August dusk—swigging
a cold beer in the backyard.
Watching the light come on
in various windows, spreading
      the night.


5:  Words Spoken in French

Following the steps of a younger
man with a dark-haired chest
as he slips into the quiet pool
to speak with his beautiful
      daughter.


6:  By the Hotel Pool

Small clouds drifting by
above a plethora of palm
fronds.  An aptly blue sky,
white umbrellas.  Fountain song,
birdsong, bird of paradise.


7:  Version Galore

Lingering at dusk
on a windy beach.
Reggae music drifting
across the Caribbean.
Clearly the coco palms

are dancing above
the empty beach bar
where I stop to consider
stopping to consider.


8:  Soaring

A single frigate drifts beneath
a clouded sky, above
the other birds, above
the palmy shore, above
the many swimmers who
      pay no attention.


9:  Unbuffered Speech

Dusk.  Growing stillness.
Silhouettes of palms against
a darkening cielo.  An older
couple conversing in endless
Spanish in an otherwise empty
      hotel pool.


10:  Mexican Night

Waves lapping the beach.  Ceiling
fan hum and air conditioner drone.
Rodents.  Drunkards.  Raccoons.
Empty beer can placed softly
on smooth stone.  Birds at dawn.


11:  No Clavados

Most of the younger women
have bared much of their buttocks.
Most of the older women have left
their breasts to fend for themselves.
A quiet day at the pool, drinking,
      listening, watching.

Most of the younger men have
swept their skin with tattoos.
Most of the older men have
clearly lived a fine, fat life.
Hair, chest hair, genital pouch,
      the lack thereof.


12:  Dallying at the Bar While
       My Species Destroys the Planet

So much depends upon a young
gregarious bartender.  Not just:
Hola.  Buenos tardés.  Not just:
¿Uno mas cervaza?  No—a black
butterfly lands on the salted lip
      of my shot glass.


13:  Trio (Zika in Tulum)

A trio of frigate birds
soaring in a cloud drift
sky.  Sunset coloring.
Above the palmy shoreline,

above the Mexicans on
the rocks offshore, as I
scratch the mosquito bites
accumulating on my calves.


14:  After Gyozan

Without much pain or hardship
I've reached my 67th year.
Today:  a late summer breeze,
riding my daughter's bike,
another birthday cake.  Avid
      joy.


15:  Epilogue (Donner Lake)

Suddenly the rumble of
a long train struggling
to climb Donner Summit.
The long history of
recent years ever present
on a summer afternoon.



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