No One Has Time For This
Story
Gathered up
As a rising first-grader gathers fists full of fireflies glowing like the French’s mustard yellow porch light on my neighbor’s stoop two doors down to the left
Gentle clutch made to save the beating wings in a Mason jar, pierced with a Phillip’s head screwdriver
Air holes, a sign of breathy hope to hold them over ’till Wednesday
Caught on a summer Tuesday
One ordinary South Carolina mid-summer’s night in August after the dust had not quite settled
November is too far gone while being too far off
Our collective attention shifted from Georgia peach ice cream, churned to the speed of slow, wait
Leaving no one to stop and listen
To a cackle of words about washing fresh Bantam chicken eggs, under the tepid water, after the gathering, before the delivering
An act of gifting
To my neighbor
The other one, who always has time
To listen
To a story gathered from salty remembering
For the ones who have lost interest
In politics and platform diving during the summer of our collective malcontent