Three jobs, seven cats,
crooked glasses, and wet hair.
*(I know you want me.)

Every summer is a girl.
The loud walk on the concrete melancholy.
Street sweepers, sweat and eyes meet the lap top.
Panhandlers lay into persona
And I greet a smile with a dead president.

Virginia, she knows me.

And that’s what happens when we write and I listen to music.
The summer girl shows up.
Palmetto bugs screech, fire flies love my eyes
Then the sun preaches brown skin.

Virginia, she knows me.

Blue ***** fall in a basket waiting for the old bay’s season.
Family crowds around the television waiting for the next movie
I’ve written and we eat on news papers.
Washington never drained the Dismal Swamp.

Virginia, she knows me.

Then Kate the summer girl walks by.
Kicking wet sand staring past the dream.
I build landscapes to not catch I’s.
Simply amazed at what is said with out words of dread.

Virginia, she knows me.

There is so much here
We cant believe how much.
Toes wiggle on mutton feet in the sand
And she tells me about Hanovarians.

Virginia, she knows me.

Pressing my face on the day
Finding her hair taken by the wind.
I lay into a wave and the heat leaves.
She cant breath her breath taken away.

Virginia, she knows me.

My day laughs when she says I’ve got go back to
Richmond.  
Mom finds the umbrella and we go for a walk.
Then she asks without thinking if she lived for this day.

Virginia, she knows me.

Tourists trample sand and find chocolate icecream
To cool.  Locals forty second street and I in the middle
For freedom. She has a way with men and a walk.
She loves me and knows this not.

Virginia, she loves me.  

Bulbs break into stalks flowers bloom
For summer time and my summer girl.
Kate is her name and Virginia, she knows me.
This man will miss the summer and his girl.

She loves me Virginia.

There is something so grounding about the rumbling of a train going by,
   And then the soothing, settling of the surroundings as it runs off into a whisper, escaping the reaches of your eye.
I sigh.
   Another train, in opposite direction sliding by.
   I see in it the line drawing my potential demise and simultaneously untangling my turmoil inside.
I am fried.
I am fine.
   I am so drawn to these tracks where the machine-cars glide,
   A deep-seated need to witness
Their Force, their Direction, to Feel Alive.

A fading shade; built with care
once bright, now reminiscent
of coming winter.

Time-bent frame; piney dreams
of summer days, gone
now splintered.

Binding rings; stretching link
rusted chains, cold rains
blow bitter.

r ~ 5/12/14