Oblivious Spring

Detroit, Michigan

Obtuse red bolts cranked at each corner of the lot. Shirtless kids slapping hydrant-spray at largemouth bass-grins. Thin strands of water nearly blind Eastern Market cement. My wife Joy and I, we’re in the thick of it, managing to overstep their runoff. Gum-popping teen lovers and elderly couples are weeds in aisles. Row after weedy-row they knock our hips together as we browse every pink beaded hollyhock, golden black eye susan and perky, white, perspiring snapdragon on display. We take an oblong tub of crimson clover and red poppy off a vendor’s hands and I say the city is breathing. I prepare for a scene. Wait for her to miff our identical stride with a kiss and “Oh, baby! I always wanted to marry a walking poem!” Smiling, she reaches for my hand, locks her fingers for a moment, says “Yes. Yes, it sure is.”

Mint, basil, thyme and trout pot the breeze. Joy’s pinched nose and lips twisted east and west say she’s unsure of the aroma. She leads us to a corner bistro, plops her purse on a menu and I order bloody mary’s, no celery. A table between us, we smile awhile, talking about the garden we haven’t sown. Beneath the table, we place our feet on one another’s seats when hydrant-spray starts leaking against our tub. I look down to adjust her knotted gold anklet and sigh at a humming bird, flapping near a cigar plant, in a banged-up plastic bed. She points just below the bird. “Well would you look at that butterfly go to town on those little ol’ pistils!” Joy. Oh, Joy. The things that woman sees.

About the Time Two Ducks Advised Me on Matters of the Flesh or, Maybe You Were Meant to Live Alone, After All

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The weight of last night’s bloody rib eye, wine and crème soufflé has guilted us into the gym. Joy’s trying to take the Stair Master’s title again, sweat spilling from her brow like rain beyond the entrance window'”a speed which rivals a woodpecker knocking at a telephone pole, after months spent idle in a sparse-stumped clearing. She looks left, laughs and I can’t really blame her. What she sees is me cruising a stationary bike. Moisture has found my face. It begins at a glistening thigh palmed by spandex shorts. It ends in spittle dribbled down the chin. My mind is wandering Joy’s upstairs lair, tripping over bottled water lining her cupboard. I’m thinking about mud particles, decayed twigs and demolished earth worms distilled. I’m wondering what it takes to kill a thing’s root. Beyond the sidewalk, dwelling in a sea of lawn, two Pekin Ducks should be charged with lewd conduct. The larger, presumably male, bounces on the skinny one’s rump to the storm’s steady pulse. I try to smile at Joy but she’s headphones-deep in another world. The rain turns, beats harder on the gym roof. The drake’s wide orange bill begins to nip at the woman’s head. Lightning welts the sky and he’s pecking. Joy’s high stepping something awful. Thunder shakes the window. Someone’s knocking wildly at someone’s skull. I stop.