THE ROAD TO EVERYWHERE

I drive but my head is elsewhere,

flaming, flecked or flagrant

in wet, dewy, naked toe-games,

or face down in meadow gold-dust,

or devoured some place

by the wandering stream.



I have a road to contend with

but try telling that to the honeysuckle petals,

or the feel of the grass at night underfoot,

or the back of the restaurant

when our parents refused to let go the salad bar

and we smoked or did we kiss

or did we merely chase the raccoons

from the overflowing trash bins.



And my headlights beam such a reduced arc,

no way they can contend with

the antipodes of thought,

ambergris, phalanges, phlox,

breasts, lips, endearing eyes;

try telling that to a GPS system,

or a roughly thumbed Street directory.



The world is divided up into places cars can go

and routes where distances are yet imagined.

My foot knows only brake or accelerate.

My mind does both, asks “then what?”


ON A METALLIC DAY IN THE CITY

The one steel foot

in all of Manhattan

kicked the one lead football

over the head

of the strontium man.


FROM THE APARTMENT ON CENTRAL PARK WEST

Swaying

jobless men

hung from the stars

with string


BROOKLYN BRIDGE

crawling from the closet

shopkeeper

millworker

brass lizards from the bridge tower


John Grey