Spring Customs

I once got stopped in Munich airport. The guard was polite but firm. My suitcase was searched. Inside were two AK-47s. One was lime green. The other was a luminous orange. Gifts for my young sons.

Now my sons are men. Poland has its own weapons. They are out this spring as surely as mushrooms will village the forests come autumn. Super soakers. High capacity. Long firing range. They're the most popular. Pistols, though, still have their place.

All this is because the biggest water fight is coming. And people remember when all they had to use were buckets. So, here in memory of those earlier wars is my poem "Wet Monday" from The Good Wife.

"Wet Monday"

Feet slap in the hall.
Voices hush. Hands cover mouths.
A sob of muffled laughter, then silence,
heavy as the arms that hang out of windows,
'Him, get him.'

Doors shut. Stairs clear.
The air fills with screams
as water pitched from pails
hits like stones against a shield
and morning comes
smelling of cold and the smoke of dining cars
jiggling glasses of tea and medals on uniforms
express for Warsaw.

Easter done.