The Southern sisters lived
together in a simple house
for a lifetime following
fame and royalties that
came regularly and abund-
antly to their post office
box. The sisters liked to
drive around town and
point out beautiful mansions
to each other over and over
exclaiming how aesthetically
pleasing it was to see such
sites, but never, ever wishing
to have such a domicile for
themselves. On the drive
home, they talked about
what they would have for
dinner.

He sat at the corner and counted
the spaces between vehicles going
through the cross street on green–
one, two, three, really fast, little
cars, one………………eighteen
wheeler, two…, three…, four…
SUV’s, one, two, three, four, five,
six, really fast, Harley’s, yellow,
one, two, red, moped turning in
front of him, green, go.

They camped at
their favorite
campground on
a quick trip
between rain-
drops. They
needed to get
away from
the neighbor-
hood squabbles.
They set up
camp and the
marriage and
grief counsel-
ing began. A
campground,
a getaway to
a community
of seasonal
seniors.
They know
them; they
are known.
They went
home to long
naps between
the raindrops.

Tiny ants crawl through sand
tunnels to the foundation,
up the wall, under the siding
around the window frame
into the kitchen.

Carpenter ants do the same
only eating their way along
the wood.

Termites who have feasted
on lumber left buried during
the construction, burrow
through the cracks in the
foundation to the virgin,
naked feast from the forest 
— the wood frame.

Chipmunks crawl between
the foundation and frame
lodging between studs to
chew on insulation, store
food and defecate.

Venomous snakes make
nests next to the mail
room and upper pool
waiting for field mice
and baby rabbits.

Roof rats climb fruit
trees in search of delect-
able oranges, grapefruit,
lemons. They scamper
over roofs looking for
a quarter-sized opening
to squeeze through on
their way to the
smells of food in the
condos below.

Coyotes climb the hills
early morning to hunt
rabbits, traversing the
association parking lot
picking up a small dog
or cat on the way.

Mountain lions hunker
down in trees in the
neighborhood waiting
for prey — peoples’
pets or chase cyclists
and runners along the
bike paths.

Black bears turn over
garbage cans on
their journeys through
subdivisions.

There was a time hunter-
gatherers broke camp
and moved on in search
of food according to the
seasons.

Post industrial/techno-
logical society calls the
exterminator.

The scholar priest wrote,
“Good, Christians, please take note.
We could learn from a native tribe
…that land cannot be owned and
Spirit you cannot divide.”
So, why are there turf
wars over turf
leading up to the surf?
The surf belongs to No One,
the Undivided One,
but the sand is like
diamonds in the rough
and everyone
is a prospector
who stakes a claim, “It’s mine;
your own diamonds
are yours to find.”
And so, it is noted,
spirit is divided,
but Spirit remains one
and perhaps the
hunter/gatherers really won,
because what we have done
is certainly sin
against The One
who is not divided
while we unravel and come
undone.

The senior citizen white guy
walked into the breakfast area
of the motel passing a thirty-
something black guy with dread-
locks. The white guy said, “It’s
going to be a hot one out there
today; stay cool,” then wondered
if that might be misunderstood —
second guessing in race relations
being like an involuntary muscle
twitch. The white guy walked to-
ward the Styrofoam cups while
the black guy motioned that the
Styrofoam plates were in another
place probably thinking the senior
citizen had lost his way — a nice
gesture. There had been no mis-
understanding. The white guy
got his coffee and headed to the
elevator passing the black guy.
He said, “Have a nice day.” The
black guy said, “You, too.” Some-
times it goes well.

There once was a maiden from Troy
who captivated all of the boys.
She once let her slip slip
and the boys discovered two new toys.

There was an old preacher from E’town
who thought his remarks to be quite profound,
but his parishioners thought otherwise
likening his behavior to Clarabell, the clown,

who was also Captain Kangaroo often seen
with his good old pal Mr. Greenjeans.
Mr. Greenjeans and Clarabell/the Kangaroo clown
never visited Mr. Roger’s neighborhood ever so squeaky clean.

Mr. Rogers was a minister of Presbyterian persuasion
who humbly refrained from personal elevation.
Each day he put on his cardigan and tennies
and invited all to a sense of personal appreciation.

That old preacher from E’town
who thought himself so very profound
was a Presbyterian minister, too,
whose old sermons landed in the lost and found.

There was an old Presbyterian from E’town
who everyone thought to be such a clown
but he must have done something right,
because he let his kids visit Mr. Rogers’ T.V. town.

Now the old man may be thought a joke
but his kids now adults are of fine note.
They pat their old dad on the head
and tell him that he gets their vote

for being the best dad in the neighborhood
and just as great a guy as was understood
to be Mr. Rogers by most all kids
who regularly visited him in the neighborhood.

Five p.m. along the shore
of the Big Lake, long before
the fireworks begin —
the water is calm enough
for a lone kayaker to paddle
and play in the still surf
close to shore, from a distance
looking like a backstroker
in a black wet suit, in the
still cold water. Farther
out the big boats sit
still floating back and forth
slightly in the zephyr breeze
and low, slow roll on a wave.
Behind them, barely seen
in the mist, the sail boats
with only one sail riding
the mast; they move in
what looks like slow motion.
And behind them in the West,
the golden sun muted by the
veil of fog rising. In four
hours or so, big time fireworks
will be shot off the end of the
pier. A few boats, running
lights on, will sit in the shallows.
The crowd at the state park
will shiver in the dark;
people up and down the beach
will sit on their private decks,
drinks in hand, unseen faces
red and bloated from too much
reveling. Men and women in
wheel chairs in Veterans’
hospitals millions of miles away
maybe in the trenches of
Germany, the rice paddies of
Viet Nam, the desert roads
of Iraq, the mountains of
Afghanistan, snuff out
cigarette butts, watch the
fireworks on T.V. as canons
explode and smoke balls billow
on the Mall. Some wince,
some don’t remember, some cry,
some cheer cynically and
rifle off lol and FYVM on their
I-pads to no one in particular.

He watched the guy tenderly caress
the body and carefully remove the
black top, fold it neatly out of sight
and gaze lustfully at the naked frame
of his shiny, new four-wheel drive
convertible. The guy told everybody
that he just loved that vehicle and
the man assumed that the guy did.

He watched young people sitting out-
side of a frozen yogurt shop, sliding
their tongues around the various
flavors and toppings mounted on the
sugar cone catching melting yogurt
before it slid down the cone onto
their laps or ground. One girl, with
great gusto and utter sincerity,
declared she just loved salty cara-
mel more than anything else in the
world and the man assumed that she
did.

The man sat at his son’s graduation
ceremony listening to the speaker’s
commencement address. She spoke
of love and used words like “affect-
ion, respect, recognition, commit-
ment, trust and care.” The man look-
ed around at the soon to be college
graduates and saw them gazing lov-
ingly into their communication de-
vices oblivious to the live comments
of the speaker. The man looked back
up to the platform and saw faculty
in their academic robes and doctoral
hoods staring down trying to hide
their communication devices. The
man knew that if asked to describe
how they felt about those devices,
they would say that they just
loved them. The man assumed
that they all did.