It’s Monday evening (feeling like Sunday
evening) of Labor Day Weekend and the
family of seven is well on their way

back to Chicago (sorry, I forgot they
were on their way back to Chicago, so
they may not be well on their way, but

they, according to our perspective, are
well on their way), but we aren’t (on our
way back to Chicago, that is). We are

those who were visited, in part, because
we have direct access to the beach of
Lake Michigan but here we are sharing

a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and waiting
for PBS (World) to come on with mysteries
from Europe and Scandinavia with subtitles,

which kind of remind us of the foreign
films we saw at the art theater in
Hyde Park near the University of Chicago

back in the day when we were in jr.
college in a south suburb. The problem
is that we are so tired we will not

be able to stay awake beyond Chris
Hayes on MSNBC to watch the docu-
mentary and the mystery.

Driving west for a week’s family
camping vacation at a National
Park campground in the Land

Between the Lakes area between
Kentucky Lake and Barclay Lake,
the driver struck a farm dog that

had shot out onto the road. The
man’s first reaction was anger
at the dog’s intrusion into

their trip and then shock that
he had wounded and perhaps
killed the animal, somebody’s

pet and then horror at seeing
the dog convulsing in the
gravel on the shoulder of

the road. He just stared at it,
frozen at the sight. The farmer
came out of his house carrying

a pistol. Angrily, the farmer
thrust the gun toward the man
and said, “Here, you hit him;

now finish the job.” The man
said, “I can’t.” The farmer
pointed the gun at the dog’s

head and shot the dog dead as
the man’s wife and two young
children winced at the sound

and stared through the open
windows. The farmer turned
and walked back to the house

without saying a word. The man
got in the car and the family
drove on in silence.

The clan of seven invaded for Labor Day
weekend arriving on Friday and on Sunday evening
headed up the dune road to watch the sunset

after dinner, after two days at the beach.
The couple sat listening to Tropico — Alborada
by M.M. Ponce played beautifully and

peacefully on the guitar by Horst Klee. He
reached for the wine glass as she drained hers
and he asked, “A madeira, my dear?” to which

she replied, “Savignon Blanc would be just
fine. I’m simply not a sipper of sweet wine,
my dear.” He offered, “Just a bit of forti-

fication, for when the crowd of our beloved
commandering relatives return for another day
and a half fulfilling joys and worst fears.”

She was going to wait until
After Labor Day weekend
And then a week of camping

To drop off four mixed-media
Sculptures at the new gallery
Fifty miles north and then she

Decided to dig in because the
Summer was rapidly drifting
Away and tourists would soon

Depart for parts south and so
She worked feverishly on the
One, wild one she envisioned

To go with the gracious, stately
Only somewhat wild ones. On
Friday of Labor Day weekend,

The couple drove north and
Dropped off the four works
Of art. The gallery owner

Was ecstatic when she saw the
Four and the couple drove home
Slowly on a back road, stopping

Off at one of their favorite
Roadhouse restaurants to
Celebrate wedding anniversary

# twenty-two. The drinks were
Fine and they always split a
Meal. Over dinner they discussed

All the house expenses and
promised that Montreal and
Quebec City would be great

Next year, which they have
Been promising since before
Anniversary # twenty.

I’m so ashamed to be white in America.
I had never thought of any such thing.
But it has become glaringly obvious,
that we whites have perpetuated all that’s mean
against people of color — black, brown, yellow and red.
We act as if we would rather
they all be dead.
I’m sick of namby-pamby white gripes.
Shall I hand them all baby wipes?
We are all immigrants and their children.
Our parents never graduated from high school but encouraged us on,
but angry whites want us to name villains.
Well, I won’t do that at all!
We are all one
by race, ethnicity, sexual orientation
and deserve equal treatment under God’s sun.

Someone said the president functions episodically.
Others say unconsciously
or just bizarrely
but certainly not absent-mindedly, or maybe.
Others think it is just demonically
or perhaps sadistically
and certainly narcissistically.
It certainly doesn’t seem to be democratically.
Others say fascistically
and that’s not meant facetiously.
It almost defies defining what it could be.
Could someone please bring in a psychiatrist, speedily?

Bury my heart in my left knee,
But I’m not really asking for you to feel sorry for me.
It’s audacious to ask for sympathy
And compare one’s self of the real Wounded Knee.
I stood right there on the edge of the field
Where old men, women and children helplessly had to yield
To the violent, mercilessness of Caesar’s Cavalry.
I cried as I listened to shrieks from the past echoing in that field,
History would not forget that reality,
And the Lakota have steeled
Against such oppressive, mind-boggling inhumanity.
But I have to admit, when I have acute pain in my left knee,
It is kind of hard to concentrate on what is going on around me.
So, a few aspirin I will take
And return to focusing and concentrate
On life’s real joys and, yes, of course, the tragedies
Like what happened at Wounded Knee.
Never forget, never forget, never forget
So as not stupidly to repeat brutal history.

As the man watched a Houston
rescue on TV, the rescuer cupped
the baby’s head in his large hand.
The man’s wife said, “He has
children.” The vulnerable, little
head in the caring, strong hand.
The man teared.

Two weeks,
Dog gone.
Doggone.

Stiletto heels,
gazillion
dollar leather
jacket
to show how
much she cares,
what a crowd
what a wonderful
number of people
greeting us in
Corpus Cristi
which is high
and dry and
where my wife’s
stiletto’s will
knife through
the mud
of the flood,
which she really
won’t have to do.
Thanks for the
crowds; soon
I will con-
gratulate
everyone for
the crowd (the
enormous crowd
here in Corpus
Christi, some-
what near the
real storm
devastation in
Houston)
your incredible
support (am I
supposed to
say something
nice about
the victims
here in the
body of Christ?)