Summer 1955
Nothing is moving today.
Neither the trees nor the grass
not the top parts of the ocean
nor the blacks birds over the path.
The heat falls onto us mid morning and
children
lose interest in torturing the dog.
I think I hear
the Good Humor man’s truck,
an echoing television from an open window,
the hiss hiss of the sprinkler whipping
around its three pronged medusa heads,
over the damp, soft grass.
Inside, a white eyelet nightgown’s
rustle, moving metal treasures in my
Grandmother’s drawers while she napped
with her eyes open.
