Nights like hot biscuits in a plastic bag
I lie in my own perspiring,
mesmerized
by the ceiling fan's quick ticking
and willing it to struggle harder,
to lift the house
and me to anywhere else
Outside, muffled screams of fire engine
and resonant thumps of police chopper
whipping air like cream.
I try and fail to convince myself
the traffic's static
is Victoria Falls.
Can any good poet come out of the city?
Streams and fields and log-fed stoves--
that's what makes a poet.
Berry and Luci Shaw,
Wordsworth and Frost,
all products of natue,
although perhaps country alone
is no guarantee of purity--
I heard from a neighbor of Wendell's
that he is now raising tobacco.
(Unpublished)
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