The Tall Grass Futures

I am driving across

the comb-over

of the prairie

up to the north

where the stars 

are less pretentious

though on a still night

a mirror universe

will sometimes

burn its way across

the black skin

of the lakes.

At the truck stop

all the strangers 

are familiar.

The rain

the children

the diner,

all familiar.

Our drop ceilinged

fluorescent lit

discount America.

Back on the road

in the belly of the storm

halfway between 

here and there

I scan the radio

for the farm report.

Nothing but the occasional

sound of lightening

and the wiper’s rhythm

in the curtains of static.

Or is something else there?

Finally, from some 

distant planet,

a young woman

with the voice 

of tall grass

reads the futures

of the wet earth.

I’m driving to see my father

in his apartment

above the interstate

with an almost view

of the stone brown river.

He is alone 

for the first time

in eighty-seven years.

Eating frozen dinners.

(All my mother’s spices

gone.)

Attending Mass

as often as he can.

As gentle as

a step-wide stream

surrounded by a thousand

miles of prairie grass.

His prayers 

are the falling leaves

in the north.

They’re the cars

with exhausted

people inside.

They’re the water

that moves underneath

the fields.

His prayers

are our bodies

and the years

and the stars

still here

but fading

as they move

into the distance.

.

Walnut

So the walnut dropped 
early to the earth
with a bruised green skin.
What a life this is.

The hard shell underneath
smells like the hull 
of a wooden ship
on the pitch dark sea.

My watch, ever faithful,
tells me it’s the end
of the sleepless night, 
but I know better.

The bulk of the world
are finishing their work
in the fading light 
of an endless day.

Lulu, our poodle,
who is 105 years old
stumbles coming down 
the creaky wooden steps.

She lies beside me 
waiting patiently.
The pack shouldn't be 
apart this late at night.

A nut,
a ship,
a watch,
a dog.

The fall is fast approaching.
Maybe it’s already here.
Even the farm kids 
are back in school

twisting in their desks
watching the sun run wild
through giant clouds
above the tiny schoolyard.

Here at the kitchen table
the night watches me do nothing
as if I’m a reality TV show -
Will a Poem Happen Tonight?!

The heater clicks on
in the subconscious of the house 
and warm streams of air 
rush up through the lath.

Back on the other side
they’re wrapping up for the day
having a bite to eat
and getting ready for bed.

Over here the east is beginning to tint
so I rise and wind the planet’s spring
with the small brass wheel
in the cabinet behind the fridge.

And so we’re good 
for a few more days
of slow tilt and spin
the final notes of summer.

Maybe now I can close my eyes
before leaving for work
and spend a few minutes 
back on the storied ship

where my family has been sailing 
wrapped in each other's arms
with a wind of soft breaths
all along the coast of night.

.

Lost

Here is the clothes line filled 

with the favorite sweaters

of the dead (that we love)

all waving to the window

as instructed by the the wind.

Thank goodness I was frozen 

there before the glass

lost in the tiny kitchen

with a spoon in my hand.

.