Emergency

This Tecsun transistor                                                                                                     propped among lavender pots
                                                                                                                                                         and hostas
buzzes
                                                                                                                                             close-of-trading stats
                                                                                                                                     swamped by the corner
                                                                                                                           house frying out.
                                                                                                                           Since March’s cloudbursts
                                                                                                                                     drops seeped under
                                                                                                                                             the laminated yard-sign
                                                                                                                                                       shrine to their
eldest camouflage
                                    his face with freckles
                                    like coppers in a salsa jar.
                                    Every time a teller
                                                                                                                                             tips them in her scales
                                                                                                                                                     they are rust
scraps of some GI carrier
                                                                                                                                     come unstuck in free state
fog
                                                                                                                           the week of Dresden.
                                                                                                                           A charred Zippo the old man
                                                                                                                                  ’s oldest drinking crony looted
                                                                                                                                             flicks petals to this day
                                                                                                                                                    with the tricolore
of one blown
                                                                                                                                             from the gingko over
                                    my head onto a mountain track
                                    where Basho hears the entreaties
                                                                                                                                                               of two
fallen dames.
                                                                                                                                                     Imagine
the pewter
                                                                                                                                             approaching sunrise.
                                                                                                                                      Yesterday was an angry sea.
                                                                                                                           Tomorrow will be
                                                                                                                           wisteria vines far off
                                                                                                                                     the beaten path. Follow,
                                                                                                                                             by all means, if you
must.                                                                                                                                     This goes only
one direction
                                                                                                                                              and we are veering
                                        years from a return.

End

 
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