Glimpsed: a flash, a red
Red Right Return.
A woman: touched it, tipped it
forth, then back. How dare?
Each day on the sidewalk, the red
rocker at just that turn.
Old, but rescued by red,
Saturday of expectations: friends
to share some lobsters. I
made bold to stop
“I didn’t use primer,” she said, “I wanted
to see the grain raise. And I wove
the seat. For you — a third off.”
touch to it, assessment
of rock, of rough-curved
wood on walk.
The seat: taut line, lashed
through drilled holes, tight
woven to last.
Heft to the pickup. She added, “Now
I don’t have to carry it
inside each night.”
Home with rescued red to a space
that rescued a dying house. Rough wood
to floor: and sure, and smooth, that rock
that carried slowly toward the sun
between two weathered arms
a rescued owner.
— Frances Huggard Migliaccio