Midwest Funeral

I didn't cry,
at first,
the day we buried you
in the cemetery overlooking your farm.
The sky grayed,
perhaps stereotypically,
and spat haphazardly at us;
the drops snapping like a drum
off the slate-roofed barn in which
I spent so many of my young summers.

Back in the church basement
the myriad Ruths and Helens,
who remember when
I was this big,
prepared luncheon for the family.
Deli meats and white bread
and plenty of mayonnaise.
All manner of fruit and vegetables,
suspended in jiggly neon
and plenty of mayonnaise,
pass themselves off as salads.
Cookies and brownies
and punch spiked with sherbet
(Sherbert around here)
occupied the youngsters
while bleary-eyed adults
drank weak, watery coffee
remembering your good times and
contemplating their mortality.

Slow Dance

How I see it:

We stand close,
not Swayze-Grey close,
but not as far apart
as a couple eighth graders
with hands on fact-finding missions
of each others shoulders.
Our hands are clasped,
fingers interlocked
or maybe not.
I say something
witty and charming,
I hope,
because I need
to make you smile.
A smile that rumbles through your chest,
dances over your lips
and ends with a burst of light in your eyes.
I hope
(there I go again)
that light doesn't fade,
but it will.
It always does.
Like the music, or
the late September sun
scattering rays through the open barn
saying its daily goodbyes.
Until then
we just sway
our hands clasped,
fingers interlocked
or maybe not.

August ride

Pedaling along loosely paved country
roads less traveled
and under covered bridges
that live only in postcards.

On a clinquant cruiser
with a wicker basket for wine
and meaty tires
to chew up the miles.

Radiant in pink
a sundress with two green buttons at the shoulders
and flaxen hair
gilded by the late afternoon sun.

An open field
a blank canvas in front of us
and the grass soft enough we don't unpack the sheet we brought
we just let the blades dance on our skin.

Three towns over
a storm brews like strong coffee
and only the hair on our necks
seem to notice.

You lean in to kiss me softly
soft and sweet like a ripe strawberry
and harder as you pull me closer
as if to say "let's always be this."

The Day We Meet?

I hold the door and you say
"Thanks" and
"How 'bout the rain?"
leading to small talk about the weather
like parents who no longer relate to their children.
Perhaps it happens in periodicals
where you thumb through Gastronomica,
or while browsing for bargains
on Vonnegut and Hemingway.
We might reach for the last
coffee table about bridges.
Maybe just
maybe
you catch my eye in d.i.y.
holding an artisan whiskey how-to
and a used copy of The Homesteader's Bible.
I linger in the literary R's
in case you pick up the scent
of Jitterbug Perfume.
In line for coffee
we notice we wear the same hat,
and you laugh when I say
my fashion sense is unisex.
In the end
you're probably the one
adjusting your glasses
and klomping your keyboard
with feverish intent while
I write about women
who exist exclusively
in my mind.