My Wife Knows Me

My wife knows me.
Likely, better than I know myself.
Which sometimes frustrates me.
But it's okay, because she loves me.
And that's a great mystery.
I call it grace.
God, even, likely.

Travels to Florida

Travels to Florida.
I was six or seven, maybe five or eight.
Maybe all, because we went most every winter.
For a couple o'weeks to Miami or St. Pete.

I remember leaving Sheboygan in the morning.
I said, "I have so my butterflies in my stomach, I could fly."
My parents laughed, and I always remember that.
My brother was in the back seat, too. No seatbelts of course.

I remember going south ... once, I got the flu.
And we holed up for a few days in a Georgia motel.
A kindly doctor came to look at me.
He gave me a shot. I remember that.

I remember seeing the first palm trees on our way south.
I remember seeing "Colored Only" signs.
By movie theaters and drinking fountains.
I think I remember because of the dissonance.

I remember the "colored gentlemen" on the sidewalk.
An elderly man, as I remember.
My mother and I were walking toward him.
And he stepped off into the gutter, to let us pass.

I remember that.
It causes me some pain today to remember.
It was odd at the time; now, I know how cruel it was.
I don't remember what I felt, but I remember.

It was odd.
I guess that's why I remember:
The gentleman.
Who stepped off the sidewalk so my mother and I could pass.

The Turn

The turn of the year.
Just another day.
Time moving away.

And that's the point.
Like sticking a hand out a car window.
We realize how fast we're moving now.