Like Canton China
One thing I found about the language, people wanted to practice all the time. Never mind it was
four years of high school French. It was “possiblement,” “exactement,” “toutement.”
Little streams of sweat ran down inside her bra, collecting on the damp elastic. Spring has been
like winter, storms one after another. Summer has been like fall, bright and dying on the stem.
There’s so much doggone LIFE here, bunnies, goldfinches and the like.
Horse-and-buggy-up-ahead. The storm’s taking the tint out, so green is grey. A darker shade
than the sky. Black is black, the rhythm mesmerizing.
Then, whoa! It’s a double rainbow, with the colors reversed. He said, “Dubow rainbow.” Big
grin up at the sky, hands on his apron waistband, squinting up at the mirror image mirage. Then
back inside to cook. Canton, like Canton China.
So far from the thrift store where she’s picking over plastic trinket grab bags muttering, “I don’t
like children; I like adults.” Again and again, “I don’t like children; I like adults.”