sitting on the brow of the hill
in the park
And a carload of backhats drives into
the parking lot behind me
shakka lakka lakka
care who they are or
why they are
But they're loud and they're
there . . .
to sit in the sun
sipping clarity from my cooler
tossing an ice cube -- the non-musical kind --
to Cricket, who crunches it
until the shavings soothe her parched throat
dat yo dog, mah?
has shambled onto my spot of grass
wearing long, purple basketball shorts
an oversized purple sweatshirt with a dinosaur
on the front
is twenty eight degrees Celsius in the
Rivulets of clear protest track from under his
suede backhat and over his
furrowing, pinking, freckled brow
causing involuntary blinking
as his ample blond lashes flick at offending
His hand cannot betray its primal
urge to make a clean sweep --
His staredown eyes are in total charge
I answer, That's my dog. Why? What up, bro?
reddens and glares at me
as though what I've said opens the floodgates
makin fun a da way I talk? MU-VAH-FUC-KAH!
I explain, the way you spell.
blue eyes cross in hard concentration
His fist unclenches
His hand twitches, then jerks
Then makes the quick move to his forehead
Swiping away the glistening comeback
he'll finally remember later in the pool hall
Meanwhile, he shrugs and shambles
back to his blaring car.
another can and wipe
my own sweating brow with thankful relief
stops growling and wags her tail.