Dream with the
tips of my fingers -
all logistics set aside, hurled now
off some kind of hot summer wind
incredulous, albeit the true
nature/stink of the city-town
blurs out, crazed - deep anxiety
but no matter, driving
driving driving - can’t go
anywhere without driving
and opening up the methane
fart car choking thick
humid air, me being strange
awkward taking my place
in a long crooked line
of all that is misplaced.
Funeral seat in NOW.
Say farewell
to the past.
Recently I was
back in Bloomfield town
United Methodist Church pew
to witness the burying of the
102 year old bones of
my grandmother motionless
about to be
buried.
Open casket and she looked
young again, hardly needed
a mortician. I used to dream
under her roof as a child listening
to music on her
tiny no-nonsense turn
table.
End of an era.
Now only ghosts reside in Bloomfield.
------------
(sometime in June 2012)
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