Tuesday
after John Ashbery
Oh day of junk mail—
you’re about to go laughably wrong.
Outside my window I count the signs:
a dead dove on the deck,
the sound of a train slipping from tracks.
Oh but canals slice through the city unguarded.
Despite the number of deaths,
somebody & everybody wants to swim
where it’s said ghosts are eager to pull you under.
Nobody knows for sure but what’s certain is trains
derail all too often, so imagine the traffic jam—
I’m stuck on Shields Avenue & to my right a cross
stands aslant & I hear someone whisper:
Never try to beat a train.
He was wearing headphones.
Oh but we’re all hiding from white noise.
Yes but it’s only Tuesday & I have items
to cross off my grocery list.
Up ahead Lady Liberty holds a sign: Taxes here!
Write it: her body shines like a nickel against sky.
I salute her as I pass by.
From the rear view mirror I see an arm rise,
a torch of fire flipping me off.
Patriotic, I write on my wrist.
Soon a fire spreads through the Grapevine,
closing the roads, closing the ocean.
Save the seals, a sign reads but there’s no mark
on this universal clock for beginnings & endings,
everything must cease to exist
as you & I spin in circles on grass,
our bodies falling in dirt.
All the while lemons rot & drop in the backyard.
Oh but I know I let the dog out this morning, yet
she’s pacing the halls.
We’ll laugh about this later in bed
where we trace the lines etched in our palms.
Don’t worry about fixing the light bulb.
There’s a lot to be seen
inside the gap between dusk & dawn.
(This poem first appeared in Third Coast’s, Fall 2009 issue)
