of wind and rain

Wallace Stevens stopped by today and left two poems for me. Gerald, Melanie's step father in law stopped by to say hello, in town selling toilet paper to fire stations and jails. Things we need, poetry and paper.
And so Melanie types out her resume, while Frank, the Vietnam vet pool man puts a new mother board in the salt generator. Needs 40 pounds of salt, yellow stuff and chlorine. Always in need of something, that pool. Do not buy a home with a pool. You will grow old and tired of its demands.
It is eternally interesting to me the things that reverberate. The photograph of 170th Avenue was not particularly a grand shot. It was not even the main reason I told Gerald suddenly to stop! It was the fruit upon the Japanese plum beside the old oak that did. I offered to pick some, but they said it was on private property. I said, looks to me no one even lives there. And so, in the getting back in, I took this and two other lane shots. And that is the way it went. The three occupants in a particular hurry to get somewhere, with me, not. But, as I posted already, I resigned myself to the speed and tried to snap as we flew past places I once walked upon slowly.
And we never made it to the cemetery, detouring instead left at the intersection of the trees to go up toward Blue Grotto. I told Melanie that next time we come, it probably will be just me coming. No one else could stand my slow driving.