Joe Matulich - Pedestrian, Kids in Spring
The crosswalk push button is all wires and havoc— a mad scientists workstation, four-way red, congestion and exhaust. I will kick the street light or slingshot the probing eye; spend a little time in handcuffs. I will don the proper safety equipment, and measure for accuracy. I measure twice, castrate once the gutter ball bowler in the crisp ocean air. He shows no remorse. My heart praises his lack of remorse. It strengthens my lack and comforts my ignorance. My application for handicap parking has been revoked. My limp wasn't comprehensive, though choreographed well enough, I beared no documentation— just a limp boogie-woogie. I had heart though, shit—
I had heart.
Kids in Spring
Children in wildflowers read a picture
book, dissect dandelions, the girl takes
imaginary photos with her dads
broken camera, his graduation
gift. The behemoth rhododendron tree
centuries old, so giant, passersby
stop traffic just to snap a quick photo.
Some call it the hillbilly house. The grass
grows shoulder high to the little ones, but
dad mows trails through the blades; to the apple
tree, and to the cedar shack, where a stray
man slept before dad took him to his farm
in Lake Stevens. Deer move down the driveway,
they want to cross the road— those jaywalkers.
Joel is a native american father, husband, disabled veteran, bird watcher, commuter, poet, maintenance electrician. He lives in Tulalip, WA