Here’s a new poem that could use a helping hand…
Against Black Cattle, Reading the Egrets’ Chalky Script
In Oklahoma there’s plenty of room,
particularly when viewed from inside a car
loaded for a projected life as crowded
with contingencies as a Swiss Army knife.
Hurtling nearly 80 with few signs
or fellow travelers for correction; then
the constant grass seems a shame to split
on either side. Trees like party guests
huddling in riddled green jackets;
gold-bottomed clouds marooned in the slipping sky,
enough for a whole book of poems
if somebody would write them.
At the Mexican drive-in just outside the state line,
a boy with a prairie-practiced squint passes enchiladas and malts.
If place could be fastened like a nicotine patch
to the heart. Either abandon by omission or else admit all:
pollen imprint of an oak leaf on the car’s black hood,
dusky air cupping the cheek, grease-blotched paper bag
and inside four taquitos, curled tight as scrolls.