itchy

Restless. Feeling pulled. Someone the other day mentioned that North Carolina in June is cool, but they are mistaken. The sun is yellow-white even in the morning. I wake to noise and smoke. They burn the grass on the mainland at night. The first and last days we sit on the sand for hours--under an umbrella, and with sandwiches.

There's a pit in my stomach named BICHN. In the mornings I worry it like a loose tooth: are these poems good enough, will this really happen, what will the big poets--the real poets--have to say. The worst answer, I know, is nothing. On my desk are a dozen first books. I read them, looking for the same holes I see in my work. I worry, worry, worry that mine will never be good enough.

Two years ago I was writing and finishing that book. Two years ago we lived in the same white town and the leaves were unfurling on the tree out front. I think of my friends. There's a dozen IPAs in the fridge--one for each familiar name. In a few weeks the ferries will groan to life and carry us back and forth over the lakes. Not soon enough.

At night I read magazines, tear out pictures of California for my bookshelves. The road calls to me. No, no, I say. I have to finish things here. It's barely spring. Not time for striped beach towels. Not time for sunscreen. Twice this week I ran from one end of the block to another as fast as I could, feet pounding the sidewalk. Even after, my legs felt itchy. Further next time, they say. Or Take us to Georgia, walk Piedmont Park.

We'll see, I tell them. But I know the answer already.

Two weeks and final grades are due. The time moves quickly. But not fast enough. I want the blank white of a calendar in May, June, July, August. Jerry Jeff Walker and Robert Earl Keen on the stereo. Open windows. Basil plants on a sill. And the heat. The B and I will sit in the backyard, watching the dogs chew each other's ears. Clink gin glasses at the sight. When the itch comes back, we'll load the car. We'll drive together.