An American Sentence VI
A woman boards a train going somewhere, riding tomorrow today.
The pickle of sickness
Smears me with its brine.
I cough up green slime
And know
It’s time
To pull the plug
Out from under the rug.
It’s just a bug
But,
Honestly,
I do
Feel more than blue.
It’s probably the flu
So steer clear
Until you hear
A little cheer.
Symptoms are:
Nauseated,
Emaciated,
& Twitterpated.
It can’t be normal
To be
This
Far
Gone,
This
Far
Along,
In this stupid song,
So maybe it’s the plague,
Or an aversion to bagues,
Which is
— I know —
Rather vague,
But don’t you see
I’m rhyming in threes
So let it be.
And
Anyway,
A bague is a ring,
Among other things,
That could potentially bring
A person to illness
If they show a weakness
Toward commitment
Or…
Metallurgy.
If I’m negative,
1.
You’re allowed to feel dissatisfied.
You do not have to be grateful
for your sweet and blesséd life.
Aren’t there mountains? Yes,
beautiful and mist-drunk, but wild,
still. You just have to keep going,
even though I know it’s hard.
2.
Once I felt like something would hit me
on the head like Newton’s apple. A fable,
maybe, but it’s effective–to believe
in a whole lot of something from nothing.
3.
Do you think the three-legged dog
The sky is the color of buttermilk
and everything green limps humid,
and somehow you know it’s still on the lake,
even though you’re at home in your cool
apartment. You know that
a circus of bugs clamors around the oak tree,
and the birds huddle. It’s okay.
A 50 minute drive turned 150 belies magic.
A woman waiting alone for over 70 is magic.
A wreck on the road in the rain raises tempers, but
police waving flags and u-turns can’t kill magic.
Detours through the fields of Kentucky are tragic:
Catnip Hill smells of urine, another crash, but magic
knows naught of an end to the journey, hard-headed
and chasing the scent on the wind of true magic.
The laughter we shared as I drove, steeped in banter,
was one form of alchemy and ritual for magic.
The rabbit (as large as a dog) wreathed in grasses
who squats in my garden remembers the magic:
Refusal to flee, turn around, or be moved
despite dangers, distractions, or rain because magic
is sewn in his softness, and tempered in tenacity
from decades of dealing with what was not actual magic.
Forgive me for chasing his trail; it’s a metaphor
to say, you and I, armed with far more than magic
had reason to run, from our stories, our memories,
yet chose to stay, to press on, in the search for real magic,
and those moments we shared, by a fountain, in Danville,
your head on my shoulder, quiet words, was a promise
that we make our fates, Universes notwithstanding,
and the space between palms is the birthplace of magic.
An art fair in a small town
Is cool … like a
Quiet circus.
It isn’t silent, by any means,
As there’s plenty of conversation.
“Where do you get the wood you use?”
“I found all these shells myself.”
“Who taught you how to hook rugs?”
“My horse paintings always sell well
In Midway.”
Even the beer guys have lots to say
About toasty flavors
About hops and sours.
And don’t miss the artistic
Pizza cones.
Next year, maybe a poet will
Open a booth.
“I can write you a verse while you drink
Your beer.”
