19-25/100: A Week of Summer Sounds

Day 19: The cicadas' thrum lulls me into afternoon.

Day 20: Lawnmowers whine, incessant bee-buzz of summer shearing.

Day 21: An ice cream truck circles several streets over, a lonely calliope of sound.

Day 22: Ocean waves crash on wet sand, a dull roar; louder still, the boom of thunder.

Day 23: The thwup-thwup of thousands of tires traveling homeward over the bay Bridge.

Day 24: Pop! Fizz! Soda bubbles tickle my nose, rock my mouth with commotion.

Day 25: Quiet fills Sunday morning streets, everybody everywhere but here.

18/100: Re-Cycle (Retread II)

Rubber shards litter the highway

more than I remember.

Perhaps it is the economy

driving truckers to a cheaper tire,

or maybe it is our green mentality

re-using a resource until it blows.

17/100: Outside Starbuck’s on the Way to Work (Retread I)

Every morning he’s there, his cart heaped with bags, staring at our coffees and scones. I always step around his mess, head to the hospital to crunch admissions, discharges, deaths, but today my iced caramel macchiato feels heavier, his eyes harder. I hand him my drink. He shuffles away, not even a thank you.

16/100: Road Trip

The road beckons.

From Baltimore to DC, to visit with family 'in town' for a conference.

Hotel pool, free coffee and mini-Danish; children frolic, high on sugar and an empty pool.

The drizzle relents.

A stroll down 12th Avenue, skateboarders jumping stairs 8 at a time.

Lunch of salad, flat bread, cookies.

Dorothy's ruby reds at the American History Museum.

Lemon water ice.

Hugs at the top of 12th and K.

From DC to Baltimore.

The road beckons.

15/100: AURORA

Remember.

Peace...

14/100: How Do You Like YOURS?

Sliced and salted, white bread toasted, extra mayo?

Diced, dashed with balsamic and olive oil, extra virgin?

Pureed, a shot of icy vodka, crowned with a celery stick?

Tossed into a pie crust and baked with fresh mozzarella and fresh basil?

Eaten fresh off the vine, still warm from the sun?

Tomato. Summer is here.

13/100: On the Corner on the Way to Work

Fifteen seconds.

Waiting for the light to flip.

Cars fly twenty over, a hospital zone. A lanky young man, pants hanging low hips like a magic trick, bops to his silent music, fingers clacking, knees bending.

"X-rated, x-rated," another man, this one silver templed, peddles boosted nips of high-octane booze.

Across the street, a woman wavers. Already you can fry sunny-side ups on asphalt. She crumples, implodes inward slow-mo.

Cars stop. The white walking man says walk.

I cross. A half-dozen attend the fallen woman. The pusher makes a sale, and the bopping dude vaults through the cross-walk, a gazelle on speed.

Fifteen seconds on my way to work.

Peace...