tell the windsock i say hi

not quite orange but i don’t know what other color to call it –
the sky in the morning that unexpected thunder
cracks out of
and then the kindof downpour that makes me wonder
if the jar along the chimney has been emptied
and if the door to the downstairs privvy
is slammed shut as much as it can be
(and then, the unnamed phenomenon of
looking at the weather the day
which is telling me it’s sunny and clear out
with 0 % chance of rain
while it pours and showers and pours)
orange orbs of sungolds
sliced in half and laid in rows
on the plastic mesh of dehydrator trays
where they will shrivel into
a storable state
the clack of typewriter
pressing keys that lift arms/hammers
that punch words into paper
in the semi-dark of upstairs karma shrouded
against the heat of mid day
(which, these days, is in the mid 80s)
tell the windsock i say hi i say on the phone

to trish who’s calling from her grandpa’s car port
under the spinning red white and blue sock
over dinner talking tobacco
i remember the ouch band aid bubble gum tin
perfectly sized to carry my camel special lights (soft pack) in
which makes me think of wauwatosa streets
lit orange in the night and
the lake front – even when it was too cold
to walk out on the pier jutting into the wavy water
we still did
and the red canvas backpack that lasted me
at least 15 years_______

full (or almost?) moon rising through treeline
as i harvest broccoli
in the last last light of day
how i cannot help but oooh/ahh at its
antique light and hugeness


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