Summer of Red Rockers

Glimpsed: a flash, a red

rocker: at

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

at red.

“I didn’t use primer,” she said, “I wanted

to see the grain raise. And I wove

the seat. For you — a third off.”

My own

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



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