Poem for College Station
Sweat collects on Harvey Mitchell's brow
and falls onto the searing pavement
blots of oil that Leon Sevcik power washes off of the garage floor.
A strange object found while at the plow,
a prolate spheroid wrapped in leather,
brings everything to a halt.
A hawk, perched atop a temporary tree
watches the lines of cars below
delivers notices:
"You were late."
A bitter berry from the vine
Paul turns to Merrill:
"Now is not the time."
The Sunday chorus is a hosanna for predictions of rain,
a good hand of dominoes and empty cans of beer
tossed on to immaculate lawns.
Reverence for tradition that set sail around the world
replaced with a new part at every port.
And the old timers smile on in knowing amusement
because what's the harm? The coal ultimately provides the steam.
Tracks cut through prairie take us to the college station.
And the consternation as city planners and councils grapple
-One has to know her history
to say for sure, the destination.
A sharp splinter into the worn palm of Mr. Millican
jolted awake. A mixture of pride, awe, and, is that resignation?
Coffee with the ghosts of Mr. Mitchell, Mr. Carter at Lincoln.
Iced Caramel Macchiato, Organic Soy Milk
An 18-year-old blows through a red light
looking at her phone a crystal ball
unaware