Sunday, September 5, 2010

Here at the Gateway

Everybody's kids are all over
the place which could be a wicked
problem, because it is difficult
to say who will be a dentist
and who might take care of you
in your old age. You know you're there
when the sound of the dishwasher at night
is soothing. When the construction worker waves
you on, it is okay to breathe for the rest
of the day. This is the place in the body
where you most easily feel
the spider web. Where the 'B'
written there could be for this breath
and bloodmobile and Buddhism,
another Delivery service
inside us. But everyone knows you
shouldn't leave the spelling up to the incandescent
goose who would never think
about throwing a horse overboard
in the middle of the ocean. That's where I am.
Make the banana bread if only
to get respite from the fruit flies. If you feel
only half of the time, think of what you could do
with the rest of the time. My new neighbors
organize their Chamois and tire black
which requires a lot of swearing. We are hoping
the arborvitae will soak that up. It's impossible
to count the grasshoppers as they pass--
to get enough sleep is suffering. Now
that we have a real microwave, I can make
my way through the dark kitchen
by the light of the digital clock--
here at the Gateway, I've got hay bales
under my skin, the trolley car
that was once a restaurant, is just like
Arkansas, which is just like
Illinois and Iowa, but nothing like
waking up in Pittsburgh where the way
to your heart is a little bit brighter.