A break from the rain: the neighbors
dragged their push mowers out
in defense of curb appeal
and the high and tight grass cut
so popular in post war diaspora
the retooled farms of yards and slab houses
protected by DTP and the attitude
that defeated the Nazis.
Yesterday afternoon’s cold coffee
and what’s left of a head cold
getting back to the grind
of the mind and the fingers
putting words on the page
and telling myself
it will all work out in the end
it will all bleed out in the end
in this one long game of chicken
and the headlights are bearing down
but the thing you never, never do
is look away
I find myself returning to old habits. The mornings blur, punctuated by the necessity to move. Away from the river the itchy foot kicks in and needs moving in spite of the new old man hip that moans when the rain knocks on the wind and the stairs keep going. The feet must keep going. Making sure I am present when I am home and finding ways to stretch this new old man hip out on the road. Must go and make use of the time. I have done the thing that frightened me, which is dig in and be in a single space, though that space turned out to be the land between the bridges, which opened up the river, that great world’s wound. And now, here I am, back on the road, riding different wounds and different currents. But they are not unfamiliar.
moments taken apart and cleaned within a millimeter
the surface must be clean and smooth to reduce friction
examined and repaired, each breath polished to a high shine
equipment checked and double-checked
firebox boots retooled, bring out the road hat
there are currents and islands to be found
mooncasts and sunrises to bask in
the stars make their own map
and tell all our stories, the ones worth memory
