He was a scruff of a boy
traipsing along the dirt road on Rocky Point.
His overalls were worn thin at the knees,
he wore no shirt, no shoes.
A straw hat fit cockeyed across his
head and sheltered half his face. I heard him
whistling a familiar tune as he sauntered
on whittling down the dusty Queen
Ann’s lace that overgrew the soil
and lay on road like maidens in wait
for the guillotine. He whomped their
heads off with his walking stick and never
missed a step. He never looked my way
even when I stopped the car
but I couldn’t take my eyes
off this scene as he turned off onto the path
that led to the cool spring with grapevines
swings that my brothers and I would
go to on summer days like these. Time
reverses for me for a while until I start
the car up and travel forward, leaving
the innocence of that time in the clouds
of road dirt behind me.