Off Season

Their childhood is acorn pancakes
and the rusted crust of battery acid
around neglected lanterns,
sugar maple crowns on
summer-shaved heads,
goldenrod and neighbor kids
stealing each other’s hex keys
and air pumps.
A life of Saturdays and online
freelance for pay.
There are two hundred fifty-four songs
on the playlist to get us down
to Florida to stay
with my mom for a while.
We will pause at a seventy-nine
dollar a night hotel
with a pool and free breakfast. I will lie
and say there are only
two of us but ask
for extra blankets. Mrs. Frisby
and the Rats of NIMH, and nobody
complains, not even
the almost-teenager.
Rest stop dandelion puff wish
for gummy worms. (I
say no). Their shoes are made
for rivers—thick soles
and navy nylon straps, all the same
in three sizes. I didn’t tell anybody
we ran out of money last winter.
A lunar eclipse and a gray fox in the woods
behind the house.
We had wool socks and seasoned cedar
and sometimes hot chocolate.
The dog is a good traveler, and
only forty pounds. We take turns
walking her. Cheap gas
and a five-pound bag of pecans
in Georgia. We pass a Waffle House
and they ask me again
about people no longer around.
I answer what I can.
Sabal palms and billboards of assault rifles—
home, the Sunshine State.