At the stoplight, a gentleman picks his nose, pokes
with the don’t-give-a-dollop only old folks
and toddlers get away with. To his left,
a car’s tinted windows rumble from the heft
of a thumping bass while a yellow
van brightens the cloudy morning. “Hello!”
the world seems to shout, but nothing can pluck
his attention from the gold nugget stuck
at the back of his nostrilous cave. Past how
many nose hairs does his finger now
dig? I turn to tell my uncle to watch the scraping,
but he’s frowning, and I sense there’s no escaping
the looming lecture. His hand on my shoulder,
he says, “You shouldn’t stare at people older
than you. You don’t know what they’ve
been through. When you’re old enough to shave,
you’ll understand,” and I say, “Okay, I’ll quit being
nosy.” He nods. I’ve mastered this whole agreeing
with grown-ups thing so that they’ll stop. Later
that night, I walk in and see my uncle writing a letter,
and just as I’m about to ask him who he’s writing
to, he sneezes, nearly knocking over the lamp lighting
his desk. He puts down his pen and picks his nose.
I now know where his understanding grows.
Bradley Samore has worked as an editor, writing consultant, English teacher, creative writing teacher, basketball coach, and family support facilitator. His writing has appeared in The Florida Review, Carve, The Dewdrop, and other publications. He was named a Joint Winner of the Creative Writing Ink Poetry Prize. You can find his website here.
Sparks of Calliope 