"Peace of Movement", "Middle School", "Generations", "Barbecue", & "Lost and Found at Memorial Park" by Gary D. Grossman
- Mar 29
- 3 min read
Peace of Movement
Jogging South Lumpkin sidewalk,
cars sprint ten miles over, gusting
past, even when the wind naps —
but I'll find the silence, or reopen,
so quiet will slide inside.
Slow, my pace, while I open the unnoise —
nerves and pulse ease, each foot gently striking,
then a green voice whispers in pedal C,
motion is life, tone felt not heard — audible
to only the oldest elephants.
Middle School
Our most direct route home
took us past Old Man Peterson's
peeling-white clapboard house,
where he and his body filled
an old wicker porch rocker,
passing judgment both on us
and the 1960s. Too noisy, Too loud,
he yelled as we stuck out tongues
and raised fists — incitements both
to his rage and our laughter.
One more thin purple stream bursting
on the red map of his nose — penciled
by a lifetime of alcohol and anger.
But Peterson was a numerical constant
in an algebraic universe of divorce
and abandoned moms. An unknown,
that never needed solving,
regardless of our route home.
Generations
I know,
sky without sun,
landscape absent green leaves,
no balls thrown, bike rides, Pop Warner,
no Dad.
Father,
you liked fishing,
a gene on the lone Y,
as I stood streamside pole in hand
Unseen.
Raw clams,
no oysters left,
our one meal together,
trains leaving the Grand Central bar,
half full.
Broken,
PTSD,
Mom, wife two, a victim,
the son collateral damage,
scars itch.
Daughters,
smiling and grown,
despite so many doubts,
demons surfacing and then slain,
progress.
Barbeque
We're strangers here I say to the folks
seated at two tables one holding
half the sheriff's department of Turner County,
the other, a local preacher, and two pewter-haired
congregants. No staff, no service window,
we're flummoxed. The Preacher turns, Y'all order
outside at the window, but tell 'em
you're eatin' inside. Our stomachs had rumbled
to empty and consulting the modern Delphi, Yelp,
we found Ashburn, GA's Keven-A-Que,
that earned four point six of five. The polar vortex
had set up his easel and now painted a chill 34 Fahrenheit.
Passing back through a paint-chipped door , we ordered
ribs, chopped pork, fried okra, and potato salad.
Keven's a remnant of better times, spinning mills,
honest money for melons and peaches.
Food arrives over our left shoulders — hickory fumes
spiraling upwards from melmac — meat unctuous
as a used car salesman from Crisp County.
In politeness, we swallow belches — barbeque after all.
Preacher turns, Where y'all from? My wife says, Athens —
we teach at Georgia — the bond instant. Conversation flowed:
the frost-etched winter — failed peach pollination,
delays in peanut planting. We agree the best
potato salad has just enough mayo to glue onion
to tuber. Dinner done I turn, You can't find
good potato salad just anywhere these days.
Preacher looks back, Ain't that the truth of it.
Lost and Found Drawer, End of Season, Memorial Park
one dime, three nickels, many pennies;
lip saver, cherry flavor with hearts;
rubber bands - thick blue, thin tan;
two black pocket combs;
keys, three house, one Jeep;
half roll of Rolaids;
one jar tanning butter;
one can - pepper spray;
three unopened tampons;
one plastic multicolored lei;
one blister pack - birth control pills;
two leather wallets, empty;
two condoms;
one copy Anna Karenina;
one yellow rubber duckie;
one water-stained letter in rose ballpoint beginning
If you really loved me.
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