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In honor of the all this humidity

In honor of all this humidity, and to do something about the fact that I have not posted anything on this blog since starting it, I have decided to share a poem I wrote in the summer of 2011 when I was out of work in the small college town of Stevens Point in central Wisconsin.

I hope to actually post something new here soon. It’s just hard – after writing local news stories everyday – to get my brain to write about anything else. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

Anyhow here she is…..

Summer Suspended


Adolescent boys riding skateboards down a narrow street.

Some chubby, with freckled forearms and faded grey t-shirts, others tan in white tank tops. Their eyes hidden beneath glossy mops of brown hair

Like little racoons they stumble onto the sidewalk when they hear the hum of my engine and disappear beneath the cover of oak trees

The clouds, rimmed in tender pink and satin grey, stretch across the sky like fading paint—silhoueting the traffic lights, gas stations, and power lines.

A desperate shriek of a hotrod breaks the silence. Motorcycles follow.

The idle hours of early summer become the summers that last too long but end up gone too fast.

Gillian Welsh oozing from my car stereo, I pull self-conciously into the corporate coffee shop that happily takes my money but will not hire me.

I have come to terms with feeling out of place—especially here.

In this small, congenial college town full of skinny girls in snug sweat pants and heavy eye make up, young families, content baby-boomers of Polish and German descent, and careless criminal justice majors who spend their mornings drowsing on moldering couches

Still sleepy my mind drifts to the roads—to zip codes with populations above 26,000—where friends lives are still full, despite my absence.

I tell myself I should pull the trigger—find that one thing, that one way.

Charter the ship, buy the plane ticket, sell my bed and my sofa sleeper

But ambition does not fair well in such humidity

I watch as these summer days are slowly absorbed by the calendar–each turn of of the page another empty swallow.

I sit on my couch, or at the coffee shop, my mind drifting like the laze of an old oscillating fan, and wish for something, anything, for romance, for insight, for adventure….

And against by better judgement for Fall.

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