just shaking
as I watch brick streets
break back up
through the young concrete
above
and I run a chalk line along
a set of railroad ties
and chant the magic words.
I have planned, up to this point,
my journey
down to a series of right turns
that will spit me,
a lost salmon spawning, out onto your sidewalk.
At a wide enough angle
I am comprehensible,
can finally be reconciled
with the landscape around me --
so stand there on your front porch a minute,
door ajar,
and think about
what part of the garden
you might put me in.
---
and on monday morning:
a car
abandoned in the
middle of the street, its blinker on --
your phone might ring,
or it might vibrate itself right off a table
and later on,
the car won't be there anymore;
the tiny rapture
will have been canceled.
And in the near future,
in a business suit,
I will step,
shoeless, through your door
and demand my money back.
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