|
The scoop whispers in sugar
A spoon taps order on her glass
It is like her Mother giving advice
She cannot quite make out the words
It is like the entrance to hell
might be through a bus station
even the fumes are appropriate
Skid marks lash the nature
of the place into asphalt
Rubber edges of doors
admit gusts through a crevice
where she might disappear to Tulsa
or Sulphur into an unpredictability
which is the same as those places
Soon it could be too hard to think
back to where she came from
where hydraulic doors would reopen
to streets she recognized
The names of destinations are called
and each one contains a life
she could take us leaving the last
with yesterday's clothing
Strangeness at first is uncomfortable
but we can accommodate lord for a time
we could take up with anyone
Someone could be discovered in Atlanta
with four wives
In each house a whats-his-name appears
and disappears like seasons
to mothers & daughters
An amnesiac one day walks off
into the about-to-be-familiar
off four states or at the station
to see her off he himself never returns
It happens daily on a small scale
easy as tapping a glass for attention
You may think about how each bus
is full of episodes and you could be one
Maybe one day you or she might go
somewhere different vanish
into an elsewhere that couldnt have trees
It would be like stepping down
into hot possibilities
 |
_jpg1.jpg){kind=small}
