On the Train from Orlando to Ft. Lauderdale, 3/14/08

Before the train was stuck for an hour
15 minutes from my stop,
before I napped
neck twisted against the window
skirted legs cold and cramped in the seat,
before I ate a Hebrew National in the dining car
that caused indigestion until dinner,
before I questioned
a small, side ways rotting yacht
barren in the brush beside
a half-burnt tuning fork tree,
somewhere between Orlando and Ft. Lauderdale,
I saw a daddy holding his baby girl, about 3,
on their apartment balcony facing the tracks:
they smiled and waved at the passing train,
and I waved back,
knowing the tint was too dark for me to be seen.

The Kite

When the twine was cut
the diamond rainbow kite
held middle fingers to the sky
like birds just freed
and soared toward the sun,
but was yanked suddenly,
stopped by a screw secured to the string
hitting every mailbox,
every car hood,
every tree top
and roof
until the tail
wound and tightened
around a telephone poll,
and the kite steadied above the neighborhood
like a flag saluting its country.

I Went Because The Truck Went

From the moment
I heard a mouse’s voice
screaming from underneath
the truck I slammed into,
I knew the truck’s driver
had hit a child,
and I had hit the truck
that hit the child.

The man came out
of his behemoth
(all-white metal
and fishing decals)
and rambled to me,
“The light was green,
you saw that right,
that the light was green,
and did you see the child,
I didn’t see the child,
it wasn’t his turn to cross though
because the light was green,
you saw that the light was green, right?”

I was blinded by the drive
to get where I was going
along with jutting bushes
and hanging moss
at the street’s corner,
plus the truck
turning right in front of me,
its grill as tall as the twelve-year-old:
I went because the truck went,
trusting to much what I couldn’t see
from my tiny sedan.

The Witch

I’ll be the witch
blackened by fire’s soul,
smoke stuck in sooty hair
grown long for kindling.

I’ll stir this soup
thickened in the cauldron,
fetid with the rotting fruits
of a fig tree.

I’ll live by this highway
secluded in the winter-naked woods,
night lit only by harvest moons
bonfires and my eyes.

I’ll dwell in this shack
mildewed over ages,
the garden out back
blooming lilies and hydrangea
in colors only I can see.

A Welcoming Poem (for Neil Young)

About the Author

Come sit
with the cowgirl in the sand:
she sings Neil Young songs
while eating cherry pits under the still moon–
always full–
and thumbs split milk
from the cleft of her breasts.