The text came from my oldest child, away
At camp, seven weeks as a counselor,
I have the night off and a ride both ways,
Will be leaving for home at 5:00, he said
Oh Good, we will order pizza, I reply
Me, his mother who is surprised
At his seeking, embracing so much
Responsibility, this young man whose
Bedroom floor is no longer discernible
From Sanford and Son’s scrap yard
In charge of the comings and goings of
So many other boys enjoying the same
Accommodations and lackluster food
The camaraderie of shared experience
My husband leaves to be somewhere
With our middle child, after I had hoped he would
Stay so we could all be home together, but he leaves
And his large silver SUV pulls away from the curb
The youngest, bored and lonely for his brothers,
Waits in the driveway shooting basketballs
His new hoop, anticipation mixed anxiously
In the secret missing he feels in his older
brother’s absence, I wait less steadily
For my first born’s delivery by the 17 year old driver
Who had to see his girlfriend, and maybe
Speeding on those curves of the northeast
Iowa bluffs to get a few more minutes
With what could be the love of his life
My son simply along for a ride home
These thoughts make me abruptly stop
Before removing make-up, just in case
I would get the call, not vanity, strictly
Preparation for what could happen
I do this to ready myself for the worst
It is such sweet relief when I am wrong
In these times of assumption, my husband
Insisting this makes me crazy, or at least
Morbidly negative, but I point out my necessity
For doing this is insurance against being brutally
Shocked by instantaneous personal disasters
On the driveway, oldest and youngest dribble,
Dribble, shoot, miss, dribble, shoot, joy with the swish
These two lovely in their simple comfortable play
Watch how fast I can dribble mom, he happily chirps as
He propels himself down the drive, towards the street,
Feet scurry to keep up, the ball moving out of his control,
And there, in the absolute corner of my eye that is not
Intent on his motion, a mini-van, teal blue approaching
In perfect unison with the legs and arms that are trying
To prove their worth, my vocal chords strangled in guttural
Terror scream his name without my conscious direction
Teal blue van gorgeously bouncing to a screeching halt
Silver SUV not blocking the view of a child bolting down a driveway
My sons safe, and all the vehicles driven by hands
That cannot cherish them, will keep driving down our street,
And giving them rides here and there, and my heart knows
My husband is correct, leaving my make-up on won’t
Protect them from all the things that can happen…just like that
Category Archives: Fear
Alone at a Conference Is Irony
Enter boldly the big room
Round tables of eight
One, just a single, no group
Nonchalantly searching
For a spot to discretely
Unnoticeably slide
Into a chair that appears
Unsaved by someone’s
Colleague, maybe their
Friend, who is running
Late and there will be
No hand that flattens
Onto the seat of this
Uncomfortable chair
While the voice indicates
This is taken, eye
Contact avoided by
Me, but she will mean
business and will pierce
My sideways gaze in
Protection of the spot
She has reserved for
Someone whose eyes
She knows by heart
Another Day’s Gift
Mediocrity unstoppably thus
Sliding through this life desperate for more
Anticipating discovery that
Has not, will not come
Someday’s promise has left without farewell
Its vacancy a silent earthquaking
Destabilizing a soul’s wish for more
Than comme si comme ca
Blinking good morning to another day
Thought’s purpose anchored in last night’s dream
Belief created in spirit’s whimsy
Gives hope’s effort life
The Paper Route
An almost forgotten employment
For my almost teenage boy
Delivering the news to doorsteps
While others slumber, sip coffee
Get ready for their day of labor
He saw the notice in a well placed
Ad stuffed into our mailbox
Available; three routes,
Twenty-five bonus just to sign-up
His round Dr. Seuss eyes,
Absorbing the countless
Possibilities of purchases
To be made with all that money
The new computer; mine
Only for me, he imagines specifically
Not wanting to squelch excitement
Conjured from a hope that he
Will make his wish into possibility
Fulfilled by his own volition
I secretly ponder the realities
In thoughts that swirl around details
He only contemplates the cash
Like a loony toon character with
Dollar signs that ring up in his eyes
The neighborhood is two miles away
I offer to drive him there
Every day, at five am, except Sunday
When the former paper boy, his dad
Performs this troublesome honor
The day thick with all those ads
After a week or so, his route memorized
Which gradually worked into a month, this child
Who cried the third day in frustration over wind
That sent him skittering to jumble
Those black inky folds neatly back together
While watching from a distance
I reminded myself this was not a something for me
To scurry towards making it all better, but
The invisible pull to save made my viewing
Heart fold in a cringe feeling his fear that
He would fail in this personal quest
To be slightly independent
These spaces of quiet morning time precious
Where every bunny rabbit still gives pause
And every paper delivered a tiny success
The Drive to Work
On the highway that climbs then turns
In the spot where there is a smattering
Of flowered covered crosses marking
Anonymous undisclosed losses as we
Daily streak past, reminders it can all
End now, today, tomorrow our life
Becoming a tilted marker anchoring
Plastic flowers, faded photos, messages
She was loved and will be greatly missed
The eighteen wheeler barrels past
Seemingly seconds behind a pick up
Truck who mistakenly believes the left lane
Is for those who follow the rules, follow
The limits of the designated speed on this
Curve, this stretch of highway where
Strangers die, where we remind ourselves
This is the spot where everyone is killed
Where that pick-up is pressing its luck
The truck must see the semi daring it to
Get going, go faster, move aside, it must feel
All those wheels inching precariously close
Suspended in time those gaudy crosses
Hopeful warnings that life can move too fast
The pressure to get out of the way lost on that
Pick-up truck with a driver who someone loves
Whose plans wait at the end of the road, not at the
Side, only to be an accusation from the dead
Breakfast with Buse 