This appeared in Poetry Ink quite a long time ago.
Of all places for me to be, I am
driving into West Virginia. Suddenly
the smell of pickles is everywhere,
ignoring the rolled up windows, pouring
through the twang of heartbreak and divorce
on the AM station, which is all I have.
It's a paper plant, I think. Or chemicals,
maybe. They are about the same,
paper and ink or clot-dissolving solvents.
Somehow the pickle smell of West Virginia
opens the way, foreruns the gentle scansion,
lyrics that tell, pastel, how much I wanted
to open that pale Magdalene's long legs.
No comments:
Post a Comment