Honea Express

I live on a blue-collar street in a white-collar town in a little house painted yellow. The grass is green and sometimes spotty and the flowers work in tones of rainbows and sherbet. I sit in a chair of wood painted red beneath a sky clear and stretched forever.

A week of cold and rain is enough for anyone and just for the weekend we let it stop and the sun shines through.  The children run down the street barefoot, covered in layers of dirt and mud.  Somewhere between a pot of coffee and a glass of beer there is the Sunday paper and shrubs to be pruned and a baseball to hit and throw.  There is music on the radio and the guitar plays warm and lazy.

I am sun-licked, my hair unkempt and my wave genuine. From time to time a smile slides across my face and a child laughs as they run quickly by me.  This is how a Sunday should be, bright and long and full of color golden-tinged.

A dog barks.  His tail cannot wag fast enough.

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