Thick August Air

Two men cut the overgrown, summer grass along the sidewalk
wearing long sweatpants and hard hats in the heat.
They spray blades against the white pavement
that clump and perfume the humidity with August smells.

It's the same air as that which rises out of newly lined practice fields
where I smell running in cleats, two-a-days,
and sweet icy water.

The grass season is ending as the sidewalk clippings brown
and although Fall brings the perfume of dry leaf-covered ground
and woodsmoke is chimneyed into the Winter air,
the summer air will thin, and lose the grassy smell of tryouts,
high school fields, and pre-season miles.

July in September

September crawls now when it normally chases June.
The leaves hold their green,
and for once, summer slows;
curling the air above pavement,
shadowing the undersides of trees,
heating red brick walks.

This year with the crisp air
and the drying leaves,
Autumn will turn a ship west
away from the African coast.
The MOHAWK's white hull will slice the Atlantic
into a frothy wake, a wagging tail.
And cooling weeks will pass
before she reaches Key West, her home.

As the summer ends hundreds of miles to the south,
and the streets here quiet of school children,
my July will return, the first and the twenty-ninth,
and we'll meet in Charleston, halfway between Virginia and the Keys.

Office Observations

The fan is constantly humming,
drowning out the voices from the other cubicles,
pushing strands of my hair against my cheek
and lifting pinned papers away from the bulletin board.

I have not read the papers.
They belong to someone else, and I'm not interested.
But they float upwards,
held to the wall with a single pin,
dancing the Can-Can.

Post-its frame the computer screen
with yellow, neon green, and purple squares
each written in a different, messy script.
Acronyms, numbers, reminders, and a name,
they shake like leaves in the fan's wind.

They lean toward the light of the computer screen,
the cubicle's sun.
I suppose that makes this cup of coffee the ocean.

Marinating for several hours

The gruyere cheese lies against the bowl sides in thin strips,
hiding the flower-glazed rim.
The onion is finely chopped, the parsley minced
and all of that added to a shaken jar of vinaigrette.

I don't normally like the taste of mustard,
but I will try this with dijon, as Patricia directs.
With each yellow-smelling wave I tell myself
a recipe may taste nothing like the ingredients.

Cover and refrigerate for one hour to several,
the page reads.
My first Cornwell recipe, and I wait my hour.

When the phone rings, I pick up smiling.
But the news will leave my gruyere alone for nine hours,
and I hope nine is not more than the offered several.

I wonder if my gruyere is drowning in the marinade,
if it feels abandoned and cold,
if it will turn on me, and taste like mustard covered onions.

Poetry in a season

If I would spend more time outside
the Spring would be complete.
I have two windows in a city of high rise apartments,
and they yellow my rooms with light in the morning.
Inviting me to come out
and walk the paved and red-bricked Arlington.
I could stroll to Starbucks or just go walkabout,
enjoying the chirping Spring birds and their brightly greened perches,
the curly wrought-iron benches.
Without purpose or agenda,
leaving the wallet at home,
I must learn to walk the city
as I do the Virginia Beach.