I can catch more glares with vinegar, more tsks

and shakes of the head, which is not

what I was going for,

I’m sure,

when I stepped to the front of the line.

Honey is not in my nature, it never was,

but I can pretend to be sweet,

for a short time,

laying a trap

of gooey graciousness, something else I’m not.

There is no excuse, I know, you don’t have to

tell me, for being rude and unkind.

It is rare for someone to

deserve the shortness

that seems to be part of my old lady persona. No,

I think I mean personality. The tired woman

inside me who makes no

effort to mask

her frustration

with the way people act in this world. Persona

is the word I am looking for if I mean the person

I mean to be in public. Mean is what

I’m being. Still,

I don’t like flies,

and don’t want to attract them, but

there’s nothing wrong with working

harder to spread kindness

like butter.

In memory of my grandfather, Floyd

The edge of the lakebed is like the sun-browned skin of his forearm—masculine, cracked, fragile. The heron stand further out from shore than was their custom before, knee-deep in still shallows, like pensioners gathered with hunched backs, alone but together, silent and slack, resigned to wait. On the water no ripple or wake. No silver flash of fish to break the smooth surface. He stands on dry grass, unable to float his heavy johnboat. Flicking cigarette ashes just past the toes of his water-stained shoes, he turns back to his truck.

He and God don’t talk much these days, but he asks for the favor of rain.