Alabama Tar Heel

power lines and the windshield glare
mar the photograph that won’t wait
until I get home–the sky on fire.

In Alabama in July,
gentlemen all carry handkerchiefs—
not for drying ladies’ tears or blowing noses
but for glasses fogging in the humid heat.

driving on the interstate
I imagine the world
as one curved line,
lined by trees, tucked
between walls of stone,
until I get a glimpse
of a home, a farm,
a rope swing, through
a gap in the green.

The stories by which my mother explained away
my lightning and thunder storm fears–
big clouds bumping heads and crying–
still work on the two wee ones in my care
fifty years later. Sweet dreams, my little loves.
No need to fear.

Just two small fingers
to touch the stingrays
circling the tank.
All hands back before
chum is tossed.
Feeding frenzy begins.

Volleys of fireworks up and down the shore
back and forth across the dozen boats
like army troops engaged in oneupmanship.

Distant thunder rumbles
clear swimming pools faster
than mothers’ pleas and threats.