Tree House

Can I sit in your car?  I do not want to drive.
I want to breathe its scent.
I want to put my hands on your ten and two.
I want to tour your eleven and standard.
I want to pretend I am you and honk.
I want to road rage and fire birds.
I want to talk your engine, pedals,
windshield, mirrors, and visors.

Over the shoulder, glanced backward.
End.  Tall grass.  Dying tree.  Thick moss,
heavy breeze.  Fan tail mushrooms sprout
in hula hoops like stairs.  For when we were small.
Planks have rotted away.  Rope ladder?
Shells of insects and leaves dried to potpourri
that could be pestled, knuckles to palm.
Torn shoelace and an old jacket and a
slumping wet box of .22s

Summer Daze

Find the place to place a comma
between Spring and Fall Winter.

A place where
the trees do not snow.  Where the ocean silt
does not float.  Where houses are not built
with ladder doors and rocks are batted into
pools instead of toe stubbed down the road.

Where scarves are things made of hair and
bare feet wet in the morning and evening.
Where the moon does not demand howl and
the animal, best, comes out of each and every one.

Find the place to place a comma,
a place to nap and sweat.  Find a place
to spit and cuss, a place to mow and sniff.
A place to sun, no place to hide,
locate and tubs too shallow to drown
to paddle in warmth and

"where the hell did I leave my sunglasses?"