By Phil Flott

1962 Sky Blue Chrysler

On my beautiful Chrysler,
already so old
fender rust was appearing.
Its frame aimed slightly up
like a jet
on the brink of taking off.
Comfortable, large seats,
power steering for the big wheel
and God’s plenty for space.

As I was pulling out the
GEM store parking lot
a sheriff stopped me.
 
I had a beard, when few did,
just because I’d wanted one for years.
I would always look back and forth when driving
as my Dad had taught.

Instantly I knew
he suspected me
of being an early doper.

I barely knew what that stuff was
but I knew the easy, peaceful 
lifestyle to which I aspired.

When I pulled away from being checked
the sun in full daylight
started to set in the west.
I saw a full orb

confusing red, yellow, and orange,
my reward of beauty.

 I Walked Through Wood Doors

I knew from far ago, 
delightedly home at last.

Strolled into the kitchen, 
incoming sunlight patterns so familiar, 
felt how I belonged. 

Set my white duffle bag on the hallway floor, 
knew I wouldn't be needing it anymore. 

Entered the bathroom, 
refreshed my face with tasty water, 

loved the mirror there, 
in peace smiled, 
in love with the real me. 

Went into the backrooms. 
feeling for remembered light switches, 

rested me in a lightening darkness, 
outside the spot through the tress

where I saw August's moving clouds
connecting the sky, this earth, 
this day - home. 

Mr. Beecham

let us draw water from their well
in front of their house, 
as much as we needed. 
Solidity of iron and clarity of water, 
the magic of pumping, 
summoning liquid from the center of the earth. 

He loved to trim his hedges, 
the great scissors
making sprigs fly off the bushes. 
Sweat rolled down his bare back and sides
as he held to the task.
The father of family does such. 

One rainy afternoon
he hauled both me and brother home, 
deposited us in the kitchen 
on the speckled design linoleum floor. 
I now don't know 
if I ever in my early life 
felt more shielded. 

She Stood, a Bush

of yellow flower blossoms 
in September sunshine 
amid my brown, fallen leaves. 

I suspected flowing phloem and xylem 
even at that late date
in the year. 

She clasped her hands against her trunk, 
averring all that gold was hers. 
A failed miner, 

I tried to remember how to stake a claim, 
took out my augers and drills, 
stared boring. 

My carbon tips
on the ends of the bits dulled.
Not even my diamonds ends 
could penetrate. 

Phil Flott is a retired carpenter. He has poems published in Mulberry Literary, Sangam, Poetic Sun, Pensive Journal, Vita Poetica, Passager, and others.

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