I hold my drink and relax under my grand willow tree. It was not a hard day at work, but it wasn’t easy either. All I wanted was privacy and a moment to myself.

“Excuse me,” someone says behind me.

I usually hear people when they approach. The gravel is an excellent and inexpensive alarm system. The man is on foot and this surprises me. No one in Tampy really likes to walk—except for me.

“Who are you?” I ask sharply.

“As I said, I’m sorry for invading your privacy.” He speaks in a very humble tone.

“I’m Ralph Bowman from Gaslight Realty. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“You reached me. I deleted your messages.” I replace my flute in its case. “Mr. Bowman, I’m not interested in selling my home. My not returning your hundred some calls should have made that obvious to you.”

He glances at the wrought iron table and notices the bottle of wine and the glass sitting across from a forty ounce opened malt liquor can next to a beer mug. “I see I’ve disturbed you and your husband,” he apologizes. “If I could maybe speak to your husband?” He scans for a male figure.

“Look, the answer is no,” I say. “We’ve been here for four years and we’re quite comfortable. I am nice, but my husband is not. No amount of money will ever make us change our mind so please see yourself out.” I signal with my hand as I begin walking towards the blacktop leading him away from the house. “You have a great evening, Mr. Bowman, but remember, the answer is a firm no.”

I walk back to my place of comfort.

“Mrs. Cox,” he calls to me.

I turn to face him. He jogs to me with a card in his hand. “This is my card just in case—“ but he does not finish his words. His eyes focus on Husband barking in a gallop towards him. “Whose dog is that? Is it yours?” He is suddenly very nervous and he wipes his brow. I can tell Husband is not going to attack. His fur is not bristling. He is in his sheep herding mode and Mr. Bowman is a lost sheep.

“My neighbor’s dog,” I tell him, a fib, of course, but a small one. “He obeys me some of the time.”

Husband begins circling and continues barking as Mr. Bowman walks slowly and carefully to the road. “Shoo. Shoo. Go away,” he says in frantic tones.

Husband is having one of his finest moments. A terrified Mr. Bowman makes a gesture to strike Husband with his briefcase. This causes Husband to pause, the fur along the back of his neck begins standing up. Husband looks as though he has a wheat blond afro running down his back to his shoulders. Then he playfully barks and goes into a growl. He shows his teeth.

Squatting, I open my arms: “Husband, come here. Let mommy see you.”

Husband immediately turns his attention towards me and trots proudly to me with his golden tail with its cute white tip curled up like a scorpion’s stinger. He wants to make sure the realtor knows he is not wanted. Then he turns to charge Mr. Bowman.

“Husband,” I call out, “he’s leaving. We don’t want to see him. Give mommy a kiss.”

As Husband showers me with little hello licks, I watch Mr. Bowman run to the blacktop.

“Where have you been?” I ask as I embrace him. Where has my Husband been hiding?”

We successfully cleaned the banks, the stream, and the wooded area around the stream in the Clyde Wilson Memorial Park on both sides of University Ave., Columbia, Missouri and now it looks as good as the postcard photo above.

The stream passes under University Ave. near Moss Creek Apartments, 1626 University Ave. and it needed a cleaning–over fifty volunteers and more than seventy-five garbage bags, parts of a couch, parts of a truck, picture frames, a large barbecue grill, a TV set, a number of cell phones, and too many beer bottles to count later, the stream is clean on both sides of University Ave. to where it flows into Hinkson Creek.

Thank you, everyone, for a job well done.

The Ravine Clean Team

From the Dead Sea
of a bad marriage
a phoenix rises–
children who somehow
thrived and married
and now have children
as beautiful as they were
years ago when they
played in the park
on see-saws and swings
and made their parents
occasionally happy.

At summer reunions they try
to unspool the mystery
of why their parents
fought all day
yet stopped at night
and gave life to them.
They gather today
in the same park
and applaud their children
who smile and laugh
on see-saws and swings
once theirs alone.

I love your cold caress and our playful fights.
how you keep me bundled up and safe inside.
The taste of hot chocolate lingers on my lips—
your white beauty falls over me.

The sparks of your fire make me warm inside,
but darling, I miss the smell of roses and misty hot rain,
the warm embrace that chases my chill away,
the falling layers that leave me free.

No, lovely Winter, I’m not leaving you,
but Summer’s fantasies won’t stop invading my dreams,
so won’t you please, just for a day,
let him in so we can play.

Mothers can change the world

and they can change the way we do business in the world.

Morning light reaches through the pines
And bathes the end of the dock
In a distant August warmth.
I watch my daughter and her son
Set out in the orange rowboat
Against a deep blue ripple,
Oars upturned, catching the sun’s glint.
I hear her tell him to sit in the middle.

Things have changed here some:
Cabins replaced by trophy homes,
Kayaks by jet skis.
We have kept the orange rowboat.
Late in life my mother
Loved to ride along the shore;
Once she tipped us over,
Reaching for the dock, and I
Pulled her, frail bird, from the water.

This afternoon we go to a funeral,
A friend of my mother’s,
The last of their generation on the pond.
A hundred years of living are recalled,
The comfortable words spoken
By people who had not known her.
I wanted to tell her son:
I know where death’s sting is.
We paused on the steps, the limo waiting:
They were a couple of tough old girls,
Is what I told him.

“The Orange Rowboat\” first appeared in Color Wheel, Spring 2007

Close your eyes and wait for the Qana
They kill their own. Rice, corn, potato–
waited so long–the horror of barren fields.
This kind of the terror force
does not fall within itself, cannot,
conflicted with the extremely easy strategy,
the taking of legs, the taking of hands,
the collecting of eardrums and wigs,
the institution of hunger and deficiency.

purple flowers
poke holes through
winter’s white teeth,
tenacious beasts
unwilling to relent to the cold
of this frigid breath
they seem to say “spring is here
to stay” and i hope they’re
right for winter’s hold was too long
and too lonely to linger forever
haunting me in arcs of broken
light, cracked halos of eerie
bliss entirely misplaced in cascading
kisses of white rain melting fissures
in the soul, sucking out marrow;
winter is like the ocean
oft crueler than he is kind
so for him to be gone, finally would be
a sweet kiss of relief
welcoming a content sigh for my soul
has been held in ice too long

John woke up to the call of the rooster. He stretched his toes, slipped them into his green fluffy house shoes, stretched his back, frowned, and reached for his green flannel shirt hanging off the edge of the bed. He stood up, smoothed his red striped boxers, and squinted into the bright sunlight when he opened the blinds. He turned towards the bedroom door forgetting his flannel green pants as the smell of bacon and eggs and cinnamon toast made their way to his nose. The floor creaked as he kissed his wife good morning. The uneven chair he sat down in leaned slightly to the left as they began to eat in silence.

He heard the mailman pull up. He opened the door with a loud creak, squinted his eyes as he put his hand over his forehead and grabbed his cane by the railing. Slowly he left the front porch and began to walk down the gravel road over taken by weeds. He walked by an apple tree and plucked a plump red granny smith apple. The juice from it ran down his chin. He opened the mailbox and sifted through the bills and ad papers.

On his walk back, he could see the bright red barn with blooming tulips all around it across a small shimmering lake. As he walked on the gravel road back home, he heard a baaaaa by the barn and began walking towards the boardwalk that led to it. All of his sheep were gathered by the lake drinking its clear crisp water. The boardwalk led him to a small narrow bridge that was just a few feet above the water. He saw a school of salmon swimming through its current. Attached to the bridge’s railing were two fishing rods both a deep copper color and both beginning to chip. He gently ran his fingers over the one on the left. He picked it up and pretended to go fishing. With a deep sigh, he put it back and continued on the path towards the bright red farm.

When he reached the barn, he touched the worn wood beneath the red paint and rubbed his hands against the hot brass door knobs. He pulled the big heavy doors open and a wave of dust fluttered into the air. The dust settled on the corroded horse stable and cob webs filled the hay. He jumped as a deep black blur ran past him out the doors with a deeply distressed purr. Next to the stable leaned a blue bicycle and blue tricycle with airless wheels and spokes poking out. A fly filled web covered them both with the carcass of the black widow. A busted football and broken baseball bat lean against a crack in the wooden wall of what used to be the pony’s stall.

The bright blue tractor and deep green tractor sat side by side. The rusted keys in the blue and green tractors were turned slightly clockwise as if to start an ignition that never began. Two gas cans sat side by side nearby reeking of gas. Both cans were corroding, rusting into a reddish brown color. A crumpled yellowed piece of paper lay on the dusty ground near the gas cans. Uncle Sam’s picture was still prominent on the envelope the letter was torn from. It lay between the cans.

A loud caw startled him as two crows flew past his head and out of the barn. The rest of the crows cluttered together disturbing the dust as they looking down at him from their perch on the large wooden beam. The barn slightly shook as he heard a loud scream from the side of the barn. All the crows flew out the barn and began circling in the sky. He swiftly turned around and stumbled as he attempted to leave the barn. He fell to the ground with a thud, relocating dirt and old hay across the floor. He struggled to his knees and reached for his cane. He helped himself up using both the cane and the white worm stained pillar overridden with termites that held up the barn. Then he left.

His eyes stung as he blinked a few times trying to regain his sight as the bright sunlight entered into him. He shielded his eyes with his left hand as he began to look around. Off in the distance was a coyote carrying a sheep leaving a trail of red stained grass and sheds of soft wool.

He heard his wife call to him in a worried voice. He did not respond, but sighed deeply and began to walk on towards the house. From the distance he could see she was waving his green flannel pants he had left behind.