^When the horses grow weary

I could have a Lamborghini if I wanted. I could. But I don’t want one, I’ve never wanted one. Even when we lived in Italy, and a shiny Black Diablo pulled up beside us at a light on Viale Unita D’Italia, there was no coveting. And I was not intimidated by its horsepower. Issac and Justine were in the backseat of our old blue Honda Accord urging me on, I looked over and gunned my motor while we sat at the light and the man in the Lamborghini turned his head like a bird does while looking for worms, Was that a noise? Was that my car making that noise? I don’t think he even knew we were racing because he was already about fifteen car lengths ahead of us by the time I had released the clutch from first. Lucky for him the street was narrow and went through a very busy port area. He turned onto the autostrada toward Naples, and we proceeded down Via Appia, his lucky day.

I don’t need fancy things. Though like a crow I like a shiny bauble. We’ve been putting together renovations for the house at long last. The tile and counters and cabinets in the kitchen, tile and fixtures in two bathrooms and finally getting rid of the old eye sore of a deck -- no more flat cat sanctuary. No more raccoon haven. We’ll have a small footprint patio and what I see as a future secret garden off the back. Two nights ago, as if to encourage us, the first firefly was spotted. And I did hear cicadas when I was in Belleville last week, but they haven’t emerged here yet, kind of disappointing.

School ended a few weeks ago and there wasn’t even time to go ah before I went with Jerry to Chicago, Fort Wayne Indiana and the on to Columbus to see the Bambina and her love. It was a wonderful little trip, lots of museum-ing and walking in Chicago, Fort Wayne has a surprising and gorgeous little museum and gallery and, well, Columbus has a part of my heart. And now we’re home. Time to really settle into clearing the kitchen. The Habitat for Humanity Restore will take our old kitchen cabinets and anything they can use or sell, but I need to find a home for everything that is in them now, those things that will return to the kitchen when it is finished.

Speaking of Indiana, while we drove through we passed by Warsaw, a place I wrote a poem about years ago based on name at a poetry forum. When the person joined they chose Death as their name and so the profile said, Death lives in Indiana. Who wouldn’t write a poem?

Death lives in Indiana

Down a dirt side road a few miles from Warsaw, a town he likes for the industry -
orthopedics and CoCo Wheats – and that its history doesn’t mirror
Poland, a place he hopes to never visit again, with such immense tasks.

He has a picket fence tangled with sweet peas, blossoms like prayer
flags shivering in the breeze, lilacs stout as bison, and a weeping
willow, fingers grazing the driveway, to hide his house.

He doesn’t have a TV, listens to the radio each morning: the local market,
hog prices down, feeders up; hospital report; Swap ‘n Shop; turns it off
before the funeral notices.

Nights he sits outside while the stars and the bats arrive, can’t believe
he’s waited this long to discover a porch swing. There’s the occasional
grange supper, casserole, and bingo, and a few kind people who invite him

to church but for the most part, he likes to keep to himself. If he feels lonely
he stops at Dig’s Diner or the Dairy Queen – the blond-haired girls
ignore him but it’s a connection.

Behind his house cottonwoods and an old silo mark the entrance to a
meadow, a place full of thigh-high grass and alive with bird calls
a few acres that will allow grazing, *when the horses grow weary.

~~~

So we made it through May. It was hard. "And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Here are a few pictures from various places: