I am that grade school child under the house on a hot summer
day. It’s cool under here, lying on the cold red clay where Mom told me not to
go.
I am a child walking from Joyner’s Grocery. Struggling and sweating
because they scolded as I was leaving,
” Don’t mash the bread.”
So, I lift it high, holding by the tie twisted tail of the
plastic bag but my shoulders scream and fail, and I must keep stopping.
I am the skinny teenager with wire rim glasses and a spray
of freckles confused by the girls that came back to school more like women
while I blush my read haired way down the halls.
I’m the China Fleet sailor crossing the concrete bridge into
sin city of neon and street vendors and Asian hookers in hot pants,
“Hey Joe … Come ‘ere, Joe”
I am a new father cradling his son, amazed that this
purplish mass of flesh with huge dark eyes has survived the trauma of birth.
I am a son of God, resting each morning and each night in the divine light of meditation and prayer.
Breath, each breath coming home, home to the cool red clay
under the house and they call from the car,
“Scotty, where are you? We are going to the circus and we
can’t find you.”
