A lone saxophone
wails on the line. Other
customers are getting help. My
brother and I used to
burst from gray gathered
trees onto green-gold fields. Would fling
ourselves downhill, our momentum
faster than our feet. We could have
flown into bombastic blue, beside
robins, bluejays, mourning doves. Arms
spread in heady air, dense with
clover, dandelion, alfalfa.
Spongy grass gives
way to clumpy dirt. Bendy
jade-colored corn stalks allow
us passage. We run
until we reach the next tree band,
the winding creek's cool tinkling.
A shush of deep sounds: insect hum,
far traffic's whoosh, a breeze through
Shoes on shore, we dip feet
into the creek loam...
"Can I help you?" Brisk business voice.
"I need to close
my Mom's account.
She died before Thanksgiving."
And can you bring back