In my progressive Southern State’s heat wave,
I visit the site of the first Moravian settlement.
It isn’t much; stone foundations with plaques,
a flimsy fort, a visitor’s center.

In the medicinal garden,
a sunflower droops its yellow head and
ever so slightly sways in the absent breeze.
The afternoon sun feeds growths
on my white skin, the rivulet down my ribs.

I walk between mounds, rows of stalks, stems,
and pods with names like larkspur, wormwood
and lemon balm.

There is a guide in the garden.
I want solitude so I look away,
but I am the only visitor
and he comes.

He is an old man,
ridged and grooved like a walnut,
sporty, in golf shirt and straw hat
Sweat beads over his thin mouth
and runs to his lips where
it sprays when he speaks.

He tells me interesting bits like:
They thought tomatoes were poison, but it was lead in their plates.
and
Them men folks was shook when the distiller’s burnt down in 1802.

He gets comfortable.
The conversation meanders,
and it starts…

He shakes his knowing head, squints myopic eyes,
you know…

…these black kids with the fancy phones…
and
…I don’t believe Obama is from here…

I gently try and steer him,

disengage.

08/18/2012

Author's Note: I think this sort of thing happens often.

Posted on 08/19/2012
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