Swell
Mid-March, on daily A.M. drop-off through a bunch of affluent side streets between school and here.
a refrigerator dairy produce truck keeps catching almond and dogwood branches, so much that blossoms blizzard
the windscreen and moonroof and I have to switch the wipers to intermittent in its slipstream.
All I mean to say is that it was lovely, that not every given is bleak or wrong and some even are as gorgeous as they are elementary.
The kids come home on different buses the same shade off egg yolk.
We call mother from the shore for easter.
That truck and blossoms story gets longer, hokier, with each retelling. I’m not bothered.
April’s bright stretches, the mailman says are swell.
Our local ‘Y’ widens its opening hours a smidgen. The clay courts opposite pock and shuffle.
I learn to swim.
(The Sun King by Connor O’Callaghan)
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