The flowers, what she saw she wanted: him,
but why can’t red be true to any but red?
Morning has come as a flat tire,
floomping along, preparing to shred.
Some days you want to push it, see
how far it will go. Some days
it’s best to pull over and get out the jack.
Let the greased handle do the work.
In fact, stand aside and don’t move at all.
Where was it you were going?
That’s right: you don’t know.
You don’t know
where you are, or
where you’re going or
why; you do not know
where you came from
and this scheme of a berated morning
provides no mile marker or road sign.
Let’s place you in a field of bluebonnets,
at a stand of pines beside
the disappearing asphalt, returning to gravel
and sand, now sienna horizon gone,
and graves of shrub and exalted scrub
retake their scorned position,
and there’s your morning ride, like it was
never there now, garaged miles away,
far from this field you stand in,
missing him, missing him,
this reluctant oiled jack handle a totem:
everything slipping away.
No children, no crying,
but drop it, drop it right now,
it’s too hot to admit or to dread.
You’re alone today.
Why must red be true to red?
Everything else is translation.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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