it was the wettest september
i can remember
and october ain't lookin any better.
in august
i drove through America's rib cage-
saw ghost towns trickling with the elderly.
fitting in perfectly
with antique stores.
collecting dust
that we dragged in from Virginia;
they were just
waiting
to become ghosts too.
somewhere there,
in the emptiness of texas
i thought of you-
looking sweeter
than sin
in a sundress.
thought about your words-
how you bless the air and day
with the golden things you say.
i finished my second cigarette
while the car cooled down.
i kept you
on my brain
as the sun sank
behind the town
and somehow drained the sky
of indigo.
the previous evening
was spent in New Orleans,
where funural homes are a good place
to make a living.
On our way to Frenchmen,
my brother and i met a sidewalk poet
who sat under a streetlight-
sweated midnight and jack daniels
onto ivory sheets.
he click clacked away on a typewriter
and would clack you something special
for five bucks.
he asked me if i was a poet.
i told him i was,
and i never spoke to him again.
i drank sake
from the mississippi as
Sinatra walked by
singing happy tunes-
reminding me
of you
and how glad i was
that you are alive.
on the spiderweb roads
i found that this country
has imperfect teeth
and tired shoulders.
dying nerves in it's spine
and fingertips.
but it knows that i miss you-
wherever i go.
and opens itself entirely
so that i will always
have some place to run to
even if you're not there.
Reply With Quote
