Wriggly Freckles
at Widow’s Peak
Pointe catches a
spider. Oh yes she
duzz! Aleecia reck-
ons that’s just the
trouble with kibble
these days. Clumps
of dust is not a meal,
as far as she can see.
And since Freckles is
not a vegan or any-
thing, and her digest-
ion is good (In fact,
it's superior! says
her vet).... it’s just
that her knees are
a bit wobbly. And
she’s got a bad heart.
But what’s a messed
up ticker, anyway.
We’ve all got some-
thing. And Aleecia
knows a lot about
bad hearts.
Certainly
enough not
to worry about
such things when
there’s the can-
cer. And the
scourge of
cars that
whiz by The
Lemon Shoppe
day in and day
out. Freckles’
hunger, briefly
expunged by the
spider, hoofs it –
all the way to the
incoming Pacific,
gets wet right up
to her weak knees
and then dances a
tarantella on the beach,
which is beiging from a
swiftly-sinking sun that’s
soon to dusk, so that the
ocher ball is pretty much
aligned with the end-
less, salt-licked sand
making endless love
with the Pacific. Over-
stuffed boxes of lemons
(with an occasional lime)
are stacked clean up to
the tin-wavered roof
of the nothing fancy
shack that is perched
between the beach below
and Highway One just
above, home of
Freckles. And of
Aleecia,
who happily
claps the tempo
of the tarantella
as she watches her
companion. Freckles
the Fancy-Dancer!
she yells down to
the dancing dog,
words that mute
quickly – what
with the whizzing
cars at her back
and the incoming
waves that lap at the
horizon. You’re just
a Fancy-Dancer – Oh
yes you are! Each
of Aleecia’s words
go damp, and then
settle somewhere
upon the even-
ing’s spindrift
that blankets
the waves
as far as
her eyes
can see.
