June 4th

A woman and her two girls pass
my window carrying black flippers,
goggles and a yellow inner tube.

Wet footprints paint the tar
and the sun’s heat peels off their prints
soon as the next step’s taken.

A carpenter bee lands on the window,
drags its stinger across the screen,
a little hiss that toggles the pinholes.

I don’t have the heart to kill small things,
to hurt what can easily be conquered.

The bee pauses on the mother’s bob,
crawls across her daughters freckled back.

The pool must be chilly this early in June,
though children are immune to such things.

At that age I sledded until my stomach
was the color of watermelon pulp.

Sober for over a year, and today I’m dreaming
of what’s concealed in a sack, stashed in a bush.

I meant to buy diet ginger ale
but held onto the case for ten minutes—
plenty of time to turn around, to change my mind,

to kill something bigger than me.
The girls appear happy. I wonder if they are.