road trip

the roads in america are often caked
with bob's barricaded lanes, interchanges
with signs warning "different traffic pattern
ahead". markers along i 95 up through savannah
name the inlets from the ocean to the marshes
where gators and flat bottom boats
slide over blue sky black mud
looking for fish or radioactivity maybe, finding
mosquitos and broken shoe detritus
plastic bags pulled up from the depths
flaccid and gooey as a giant's condom. there's eighty miles
from jacksonville to savannah, and every time
i drive up to jack's they're working on at least
two thirds of it.


tall trees line the interstate. on the porch that is on the curve
of a rolling hill , you watch the cars travel
to somewhere they're not. inside the cars are my cousins
and step sisters going to visit their aunts this thanksgiving
the smell of pumpkins in the bubblegum she snaps
she hates this flavor she hates this song on the radio da ad
i don't want this song, the princess says so detroit
builds daddy a strong coach, with seperate video display
monitors for each of the two point five kids
and the alpahbet game and the quiet game and i spy
are tall tales no one hears anymore. the green field with horse
the oak that spreads across an acre on the arc of a quiet
glance out the window, past the dairy queen advertisement with ice
cream cone as big as a child's desire, the folding of time
over space, the ribbon of road as open
as never getting there. are we there yet?













she loved the way his sifting
drifted over the stall. she arranges pottery
after a purchase or two, sticks a bamboo
cutting into a sienna glazed round jar.
he's in the back, with the stones, working his hands
into the mass of them kept in the bucket, pulling
up , then filtering through his fingers. in the song
the way she drifted in tidepools on siesta key
a mask and snorkel and waves, breaking gently
over the tiny dead sea shells, the tinkling way
they pulverised into sand. she knows she's
imperfect, lucky, able to bend to the will of the water.
she's moved from side to side, like a fin, being used.












i didn't mind the spotted leopard prints
or the way you thought disco was retro
and the black rim glasses that reminded me
of older brothers and poodle skirts.

it was only that once we'd had each other
there was nothing more to explore

besides you had a book to become
and i had a child to raise. i felt bad
when i heard later that your book also
became a child. some tell me that's weird
priorities but i feel like we all have the freedom
to regret our choices, even while loving
the consequences. thus desire is maintained.













there is popcorn in da house
and butter. there's streaming
tv with laughter or drama or music

news even, if that's your bag. plenty
of diversion to take one's mind off
poetry, the dance from the edge of the fire
that burns in our center.


there's sleep too. diversionary tactics that bear
fruit if you can stick with them. maybe i'll
take up lucid dreaming. feel your vibe on the phone.
don't leave me a message, i dn't listen to them
just keep calling, i 'll write you back.
whatever can be saved, in the time allotted.