HelenSometimesHolly

jocowrites

Grandpa's Dandelions

The only man I ever knew who wore a beret and plaid purple pants well kept a pocket knife at the ready to make his assault, anywhere, anytime.

He could always be found, stooped to the ground digging the roots. He had to get it all. His aim to rid the world of those billowing lion heads spreading their seed and flowers beloved by children.

It’s spring, my yard a blanket of yellow flowers. A travesty to that warriors memory, a family embarrassment

Forgive me grandfather. I love bees, and you would strain your back just to see their first food.

#poetry #jocowrites

Morning

It’s 2:45 am and I’m standing in front of a housing co-op waiting for an Uber to the airport. A cool, delicate, and delicious mist dampens my backpack just enough to make me wonder if I’m imagining that it’s wet at all.

A man pushing a rickety grocery cart is headed my way. His cart clunks at each seam and wrinkle in the sidewalk and I wonder if my standing there with no purpose will make him uncomfortable.

He’s being trailed by a golden mylar balloon with a four-leaf pattern on it and I wonder why he has adopted it. Will he try to sell it, or does it just make him happy?

A coin falls and he’s casting his flashlight about as the balloon slips, unmoored, floating past the power lines into the night sky.

He abandons the coin.

“You taking this?” he asks inspecting the two recycling bins on the curb. “No. Help yourself,” I say. He rumages but takes nothing. The bin has already been picked over. As he straightens, I say, “Nothing good?” He mumbles something unintelligible, then “have a good night” as I’m saying “have a good morning.”

I lift my gaze to the sky for the balloon, but it’s gone. I watch as the man slowly bumps his cart along his way.

#jocowrites

When You Live in an Old House

You must have a mouser. And when you walk through the kitchen You risk discovery of the gift. Never quite dead.

Cute, except when it’s pooping in your silverware, Or chewing up your favorite winter scarf.

The crunch of bone, Felt, or rather heard, it’s hard to tell which. You’ll be grateful you had your boots on.

You’ll be glad, feeling the crunch of bone, That it’s suffering is over.

#poetry #jocowrites