I don’t remember the sky without
those man-made clouds –
those airplane slug trails
that lead from concentration
to dissipated
sky dander.
But I remember the water.
Creeks and runoffs slither
and coil
in my mind’s three-ring scrapbook —
that oily film that glittered
on the standing water –
that eerie foam near the rapids.
I can feel the rough sandbanks
on my toes
and the lurking fear of the cottonmouth nearby.
The road noise moves him,
and the slap of his body
on the green-brown shallows
snaps me
out of myself.
And I run like hell
all the way
to my bright blue bedroom
in that pink brick ranch
and shiver with life.