The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Heddy Reid
AGE OF MIRACLES
I expect cleaning the restrooms isn't so different
from validating historical principles, or from napping
after the exertion of writing a poem, which I am fighting.
Thursday I pulled off the Interstate just south of Baltimore
to, as they say, refresh myself. Inside the Ladies', a toilet's
electric eye caused it to ghostflush as I rose from the seat,
yes, and at the sink, water coursed from the tap at the merest
pass of my hand underneath. Who could have foreseen this?
Certainly I would do toilets, but would rather not,
all things being equal, do urinals.
Listen: we get off
toward the horizon, boys on their backs half-swallowed
by rusting cars. Dogs on chains. Where the face of inbreeding
can appear in any doorway, or the face of an angel. Miles
and miles of this. But the black earth roars down by the creek,
and yesterday I saw about a hundred wild turkeys tearing up a cornfield.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication