-Pictures in Motion-

He considers

The sounds of the house in early morning,

The scent of smoldering

Rubber from the law-breaking drag races
On route 24,

The screech of the spring

Expanding to the outside and the sleepy
Rides back home from the beach.

He knows the importance of reaching

The tops of the fences,—
The back-handed nab at the tongue
Of the spikes to end an inning;

The gleam of red paint as the Schwinn

Was rolled into the evening entry;
Its kickstand's early morning push to roll out of it.

He knows the spice of her mother’s Tabu,

The calm of the dance and the swish

Of his mother's sponge across the kitchen-
Table’s oilcloth

Releasing the scent of petroleum.

Call him storyteller,
Diarist, poem-writer of the after-living.
Call him

Speaker of the house, liar,— cataloger

Of the simple experience.
I'm told his earliest friends have chosen
Other points of interest.

I’m told he’s hot on the trail of something.

Adjust the sensibilities to listen in.

Turn the knob counterclockwise to shut him up.