Cadillac, and: Comet Ping-Pong, and: Homeplaces, and: Piece for Number 17

Cadillac

The best tupelo flowers grow near the Wakulla Riverin Wakulla County, Florida, where I know a few peopleI don't care for. Though the tupelo trees need wetlands—their roots find a way to grip a rush of mud—the flowersmust stay dry for the bees to visit them. Other treescan have wet flowers and still yield good pollen, but the workerswon't touch wet tupelo. Call it bee psychology, maybe.Call it joy withheld from the memory of bad weather—from the collective anxiety of the hive. Bees knowthat tupelo blooms sweetest of all, that the first rivermust have swept away no flower besides tupelowhen God punished the deeds of the first springtimeby inventing the mile marker and the vanishing point.Wakulla, like the place of banishment, lies east of town,between rivers. It has one post office and six churches.

A local man sells tupelo honey all summerat the junction of State Road 83 and Woodville Highway.This year, he tells me, the rains came early. Not enoughto prevent a wildfire, but enough to keep the bees off.He lifts one of the last half-gallon bottles of tupeloon two fingers and says, "It's the Cadillac of honeys—you can't do better, just different." He pauses, then adds,"I guess it's not what it used to be, just like the car."State Road 83 follows the Wakulla River,though it's a ways through there before you can see water.I get back in my car before I sweat through my shirt.A raincloud seeds its shadow in the stands of pine, idling its payload. The scarce tupelo honey I've boughtis a gift that I will deliver a thousand miles from here.You must love the sweet thing water grows and ruins.

Comet Ping-Pong

after the election, 2016

A man alone goes on a pilgrimagefrom Salisbury, North Carolina, throughTidewater country, up I-95—finally reaching Washington, DC.

He's thought it through with some precision: ninetimes out of ten, you look beneath old paint,there's rust. He's only brought one magazineof thirty rounds.

The plan: get off at Exit 33,Connecticut; drive down to Tenleytown.Park on Nebraska, walk right in the place.The sign glows like the Star of Bethlehem.

The man will not remember what he saysto calm the hostess. She says, "We haveno basement in this building. Please don't shoot."He will remember shooting once or twice.

No one is hurt, and no one cares that noone is hurt, because that true report—closer than fear of death—has customerscrawling. They see a new topography

where under is the only way to go:they dive beneath their sloppy pizzas, big sacraments half taken, half forgotten;hugging doggy bags like rescued infants.

Police drag him outside, where he explains,"I'm just investigating news I heardabout Hillary trafficking children hereunder the restaurant. There's a hidden door."

From there, no going home. He goes to jail.He finds that nothing, after all, will change.One cop says, "You aren't shit." Another knowshis daughters' names but gets their ages wrong.

He says he has no politics, just senseenough to know when things are getting bad.He is the shadow of a fist that growsinto a bird, a plane—maybe a star.

That corner of Connecticut hums on.Customers arrive at Comet hungry,ready to play—to work at moving on.The hostess is ok, though she can't help

but feel a jolt with every serve. The truthremains behind the wall, propulsed so fastit's crushed, two bullet holes archived in brick:eyes closed up with plaster.

Homeplaces

for Josef Koudelka

Two shirts and one pair of trouserslast me two years. My leather soleslook more and more like the mud paths until they turn to dust. No placehas more than three months...