The noon hour whistle
Vibrates the walls
Of the hollow heavens
To the cab; the thermos-well
Of soup, sitting on your lap, you cannot see, but
You feel its stillness
Stagnating and absorbing
The contaminating minerals
Of the tin, walling in the contents;
And still you want to turn on the ignition
To finish out one more complete day
In the twenty-three years here
Of hard work.
The quandary then snaps, and you escape.
When out of the valley you enter the truck
And close the door--
The second time harder, and it latches.
You turn the key
And the truck bounces to the highway.
You stop at the sign;
Stop the motor while
Still on the dirt road;
But in the end turn left, again,
Home.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
Maddog
(Or Death to the Barbie-Dame Image)
You said that it happened--that day you ran away
From a self you buried underneath the ice-packed snow,
All those cold years ago--when your last friend, then
Had put an end to the Gabriele whom I've never known.
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