judi’s orange box

orange box orange box!

all hail the emerging

yard sale queen

excitement fills tiny lungs

gas station fried chicken fills full stomach

highway 127 is said to have the best

fields of grass and weedy flowers line

white horse fences guarding family homes

sun-bleached trinkets fading from age

blankets covering dewy ground

parked box on crunchy gravel

too-big leather boots sit on the paved driveway

is two dollars enough?

they wanted more!

judi tells me they always do

straw-berry

lil’ pi’s small hands grab shortcakes from kroger packaging

honey, those are meant for strawberries

gram calls out from the kitchen table

but she’d give her whatever she wanted, really

even if she asked for the stars

sugar sliced strawberries on vanilla ice cream

strawberry pb&j with preserves, not jelly

freshly-cut strawberries in cream cheese dip

homemade strawberry cheesecake

always gram’s berry girl

pool, pizza, pbr

shoulder-burning summer afternoons

of waterslides, make-believe pirates

delirious on chlorine water

soaked through towels cling to wet hair and skin

plastered into aunt jenn’s toyota

audiobook playing on loudspeakers

jack and annie’s treehouse adventures

mom and dad arrive just after me

stepping into a mellow campus pizzeria

four glasses of amber alcohol 

crushed cans on painted tables

three pretzel and sauce covered faces 

splattered with cheesy, giggling smiles

will we be together forever?

mason versus headley

sweat radiating from his sticky shoes

leads to grease-stained wendy’s bags full of jr bacons

pushing riding mowers through dusty white shed doors

running past perfectly rounded, uprooted hedges

trampling over ground-rooted pink peonies, roses

suffocating the ivy that grew too far up the house

betty’s old cushions pattern summer blooms

olive toned running carpet covers hardwoods

made up for by dingy brown basement wood-paneling

backyard iron-wrought white chairs turning rusty brown

climbing the big magnolia and seeing 

who can get to the top fast

kennon could, what about 

me? i grieve

shiny new tool

momma sits in the front flower bed, cowboy boot in hand

holding turned mounds of dirt and worms

pollen drawing out running noses, held-in sneezes

wrangling plants into pots of brown dirt

her gloves and forearms stained by earth

dandelions and cut grass covering sandaled feet

as roses root themselves against algae stained metal siding 

seeming superficial, artificial against white

but you could never make this home