Sunday, June 1, 2008

Bound for Tucson, Arizona

five-minute poem

Securing the blue tarp over the foredeck
Garbage jettisoned
The scream of jet engines
Up the stairs
I would wave to imaginary journalists
In LA—the flight’s been cancelled
Waiting for the bus to Motel 6
A family, frizzy-haired mom, florid-faced dad in a Hawaiian shirt
The daughter’s wearing black, oversized sunglasses with ironed hair, her brother all in white, his sunglasses are white, a skinny black tie over his white shirt, derailed on their way from Des Moines or Kansas City, shuttled to a cheap motel—finally, puffs dad, and they follow him, carried off into the night—how did this happen?
I walk toward the ice machine on the ninth floor
Muffled shouting on the phone
The next day we share a cab, the guy fits the eight bags and the cat and some other guy’s stuff
Stoic soldiers in camouflage
I’m sure I saw a TV star—a coy glance and a little wave in the international terminal
Where I went looking for food
And I feel larger, in relief

We look at real estate with our new friend Alex, fellow aficionado of vintage appliances.
"Weird kitchen."

Gypsies in the palace

1 comment:

Ruth said...

Jessica, Welcome back!! Am heading for UGA (Athens) so not that far away. My email for now is Miss you all, Ruth xxxx