"Pink sky at night,
a sailor's delight;
pink sky in the morning,
a sailor's warning,"
She whispered Wisdom
into my ear over summer sounds:
the creaking porch swing,
ice cracking in our jelly glasses
Trucks whizzed past, now and then,
we would wave until they blasted their horns
my little arm bent at the elbow
pulling an invisible string up and down.
"Somebody's in the kitchen with Dina.
Somebody's in the kitchen, I know.
Somebody's in the kitchen with Dina,"
Her voice shook with that final syllable
My contagious giggles lapsed
into a contented sigh and
I wondered about Dina
I wondered about Somebody
Did Somebody love her
was Somebody welcome or
just another body to shoo away
and out of a kitchen for one
I imagined Dina. Her hair, her dress,
those apron strings tied like a sloppy afterthought.
At times I could smell Dina's corned beef hash and rice
& maybe collards and black eyed peas for good fortune
The porch swing kept creaking and I
snuggled secretly hoping against
her resolution to reduce the padding
under her bedazzled purple t-shirt.
My eyes adjusted to the fading light:
pine needles dry and rusty brown
fire ants working on the mounds I kicked moments before
white paint chipping on the front porch railing
Hairs of my lashes popped in and out
of view as I forced them open
not wanting to miss the Finale
of frogs and crickets rivaling owls
as they rehearsed, never quite in tune,
their song inspired fireflies--
joyous sprites in tutus
twirling to their own choreography
My porch swing companion, like the bullfrog opera
and tiny iridescent winking lanterns,
could be flawed at times, but
perfect in familiarity, simplicity, and love
