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Summer Hostage

Our small loop of a street
usually quiet
Today receives a loud grooming
with chain saws
and wood chippers
and diesel trucks slicing
and ruining silence
into anti-solitude.

This is my last day off
until summer school begins
in two sultry weeks.

Morning rain passed through
to breezy summer camp sun,
crisp shade tree shadows
moving slightly within lush grass
waiting for my non-motorized mower.

It feels queer…
I feel queer,
at sixes and sevens
at 67,
to trust that I need
not just more solitude
to become healthy again,
but more silence
to become vocally wealthy
again.

To go
or to stay
here
too near a State highway
trafficking toward two casinos
now more native to American economies
than Native Americans to empowerment.

This last bus
not quite upon us
while thoughts wonder
and feelings wander
about shouting sawers
and clanging chipper
banging my longing
back to a rural dirt dust-path
along side a Michigan Centennial Farm
where I knew breezy
silent
summer encampment days
of solitary
fresh freedom.

I wonder why
we can’t go home again,
Yet I can go back to childhood
solitude served up
in sacred silence
unsettling memories
of childhood freedoms lost.

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