With Apologies to Mr. Gershwin

Summertime, and the breathin' is wheezy,
Trees are blazin', smoke's risin' high
Manton's burning, and Shingletown too
Hush little breather, don't you die
 
Is that the sun? And where are the stars?
Skies are brown, and so are our lungs
 
A lightnin' strike, or a broken tailpipe,
Careless campers, dropped cigarettes
Hush little cougher, don't you die

Ben Mielke

Farley

   

   Farley woke up from his afternoon nap and searched the nightstand by his bed for his glasses.  He placed them gently on his face while he lay there in waning light of early evening coming through his window.  He took a few deep breaths and stretched, hearing his back crack in a few places, before sitting up and placing his feet on the dusty wooden floor of his bedroom.  His transistor radio was playing classical music softly and he knew that it must be before five o’clock because the news was not yet on.  He liked to be up before five and he didn’t care for the evening news on the radio.  It was usually just a replay of the news that he listened to at five o’clock in the morning. 

   He stretched and yawned.  He stood up with the aid of the cane he kept against the nightstand and walked slowly to the bathroom.  Farley filled the glass on the sink with water and took a long drink.  He took off his glasses, splashed water on his face, put his glasses back on and straightened his hair with a comb.  He used the toilet then walked back into the front room, sat in the recliner by the window, and put his shoes on.  He rested a bit and then tied them.  He looked out the window at the street below.  It was a clear day and there was not much traffic.  The sidewalks were practically empty.  The sun felt warm but he knew that the evening would be chilly.  He stood up, walked over to his closet, and pulled out his old blazer.  He brushed it gently with his hand before putting it on.  Then he took his worn gray fedora off the door hook and put it on his head.

Things Left Unsaid

by Scott Clark

The refrigerator in the kitchen is running

When I return late from visiting friends

Whom I have not seen in years.

My sister sleeps in a recliner in the next room

The son she named after me asleep in her arms.

We are all so much older now.

The house is quiet except for the refrigerator hum.

It’s door is covered with paper attached by magnets.

Post-it notes, grocery lists, take-out menus, and family photos.

The pictures are recent and my relatives stare back at me

From in front of Christmas trees, vacation scenery.

Buried underneath a newspaper clipping is a photo of me.

I am standing on the porch of this house, my mother’s house.

My hands are in the pockets of my raggedy jeans.

I am looking at the camera as though surprised,

More than a little hungover I suspect.

A large travel bag hangs off my shoulders.

It is the uncertain, wandering, years ago me.

My sister stirs, awakes and sees me.

She stands slowly, careful not to wake the boy.

“We were waiting up for you to say goodbye,” she whispers.

“Do you want to wake him up?” I ask.

She shakes her head, “We’re going to bed. Good night.”

I watch the Mother and Child ascend the stairs.

In a few hours I will be on a plane

And a few hundred miles after that

I will be standing in my own kitchen.

Listening to a running refrigerator

That is bereft of adornments

Of any kind at all.

I replace the newspaper clipping

Press my palm against the door.

It is alive with vibrating warmth.

I put my head down

Close my eyes

And forgive them all their smiles.