to illuminate my way

in the dream i am on an amtrak train
i’m in the employee quarters
which is more spacious than i anticipated
and wider than a train car
and i’m learning the ropes (which mostly
means i’m being shown around)
and eventually someone says
there’s an opening on the train
that goes to canada (and back)
it’s yours if you want it
so then there i am, on a bike/electric bike
cruising through the next morning
of a portland/san diego mashup
touching my head and realizing i’m not
wearing a helmet on and i consider heading back to grab one
but i’m already 15 minutes out which would make me late
for the train that goes to canada (which is still a bit of a mystery
because i don’t know where it originates and where it terminates)
which means i’d miss getting the job
and then i hear myself say
well shit, this is a dream, you can give yourself a helmet,
you just have to will it
and sure enough
i will a helmet onto my head
and carry forth realizing the lights aren’t on 
so i search for the switch to illuminate my way
while wondering
if i’ll get to wear one of those cool blue hats
on the train at my new job
_______

one hand in my raincoat pocket
the other wrapped around a pint jar
filled with chives just clipped
from the plot
_______
the sound that the side of the house makes in the wind
something similar to floorboards creaking
under someone’s weight as they walk across

 

 

our lives are extraordinary

unweaving/uncoiling/detangling
overzealous loofah vines
from hoophouse sidewall ropes
this is where, hoodie-wrapped
and stomping down tall grass in galoshes,
at age almost-40 i learn to breathe
myself back into my body
_______
i love my job i say
on the aluminum ladder
in that light (meaning the
particular glow of late-september’s
sun angle) in the novelty of layers
(fleece tights and purple skirt
and hoodie with hood up)
while i reach to pluck dried lima beans
from their vines
which is a funny thing to say because
this work is not a job
and trish, who’s prying apart the
old hoophouse door frame with a crowbar
says yeah, growing food can sometimes feel
mundane in the day-to-day, but our
lives here are extraordinary
_______
monarch on blade of tall grass
then on my finger then
delivered to the perch of a
peach-colored zinnia
_______
did the tomatoes ever tomato i ask
cross-legged on a raincoat for a blanket
phone held up to face
satellites linking us from a time zone apart
and later observe: i guess your love
is way less angsty than mine
_______placing sharpie markers
in front of those of us gathered
around the popcorn we dig out with
improv paper cones
for a round of exquisite knucks
resulting in:
tiny hoot
zany stud
blue past
tuff dirt
high toad
_______

it is unanimous amongst the circle of us
that these (variety unknown)
blemished light green skinned apples
are the crispest, balanced sweet/tangy -est
juicy but not too juicy
deliciousest ever
_______

how we pluck hot pink glitter-cards
from the pile in the middle and
laughing at what they reveal and
offering multiple interpretations

_______

sun dipping down
gold orange yellow
to our left as emory, trish and i
pedal south / home
_______

chen daddy classic:
pot-stickers and stirfry
how we eat on the front porch
and the conversation continues
into post-sunset dark
_______

ty and i laughing about
the rookie hats we’re going to wear
to the best of missouri festival
where we’ll sit with our
outdated non-perfectionistic
display