“It Once Was A Parking Lot Playground”

rustred razor ridges

rank-on-rank pile hurricane

flotsam, jetsam here.*

 

  • (The formerly open park and hoped-for middle school student pickup point across the school’s street, complete with a pair of crossing guards to face the blinker-threatened twenty-mile-per-hour slowed four-lane federal highway, used to host pickup baseball, football, cricket and other team games and golf driving and frisbee playing and dog chasing days and now at one end is a massive stormwater renewal project for down below-the-hill old city historic – hysteric say I – streets with the looming soon – we all hope – to be filled hurricane detritus-filled space to remove from residential and business traces the flower of 11 long years without a tropical storm or hurricane to denude our many varied canopies of Like Oaks and other Quercus species among many others so it just looks more devastatingly deforested than really it is.  But it all is fenced off with newfangled orange day-glow mesh and threat-signs warding casual dumpers not here noway nohow! $500 fine if you scofflaw.  And the community garden is all but blocked off from access.  Governor Rick Scott, echoing President Donald Trump: we gotta get this stuff picked up since we’re a tourist state and we gotta look good.  Pray none drive U. S. Highway 17-92 through beautiful battered downtown Sanford, Florida.  Or. Pray they do.)

“Popular Girls”

They are blonde and blue,

black-and-brown, and all between:

svelte and strong, these girls!*

 

  • (A reinforced patrol of eighth-grade girls give grief to a couple of sixth-grade boys, short and squeam, down the middle school outside sidewalk until other pursuits beckon after the final bell.  These tall, trim girls run a fun pack.  What boys decades ago would pack in that back left jeans pocket, a round can shape denoting banned tins of dip – snuff – not is a rhombus etched in just-as-tight jeans that boys no longer wear proclaiming I-Phone number whatever as they swagger through a newly conquered school year.  Things change. Some sociologist or education doctoral candidate needs to drop by with a six pack and their own chair to watch the show.  Instructive.  Women run middle school now.  The world?  Pffft!)

“Just A Little Pain, Please” Tanka 830

Cracked upper left rib*

tree-trimmin, makes my laughiing

less-than-an-enjoy.

 

Got tired of runnin’ into

that one too-big limb – it’s gone!

 

  • (Clearing my brother-n-sister-in-law’s  frontage roadside treelot now a double-decade old after not-really a hurricane irma hereabouts but windy enough, I got tired or running my glasses-clad face into this one persistent oak limb, about a good inch and more across.  Everytime I tried a new route to the street through the longish but not-so-deep loodlot that limb would follow. I swear. And cussed.  And so I took the too-small bypass lopers, gested one handle against the left side of my chest and brute-bullied the shearing tool through its final cut.  And me.  I averted using that side for moresuch work later, putting the fulcrum atop whichever shoulder seemed appropriate.  Been near a week now.  Still huts to cough – worse, to laugh.  But I found a good wormplace to sleep which accommodates my squirms without sunder.  This morning the tingle tells me to stay easy.  Have a few noon beers.  Salad.  Fish.  And, yes, dessert with full-force milk.  Just takes time to tell a fool he’s no longer seventeen, you see. One day. Real. Soon. Now, maybe I’ll be promoted all the way past kindergarten and eighteen.  Ya think?  Nope?  Thought so. Got a ‘nuther shoulder.)