Waiting and Then Not Waiting for a Green Light
in Greenfield, Massachusetts
The red pulse of three turn signals and the click of my own
a serial music, more for the eye than the ear.
Images of unseen birds sweep the rear window of the car ahead,
like a school of neon tetras through an aquarium glass,
but swif' swifteach concise image pulled awry,
as the flock, itself, is warped, is bulgedis gone.
An hour ago: Gray whispery wisp of a man standing
a little less than the librarian on duty:
" ... I have always been very sensitive,
very creative yes-yes have been all my life,
very sensitive, very creative ... " and on the street
outside the library, a drunk grabbed a parking meter,
well there you have it,
a hot lunch. And now it isthe awaited shift from red
to greenthe tachometer needle jumps.
(When you redline
on fear you redline, and everybody has a battlefield,
and it doesn't matter where or what the battlefield
when you redline).
I still have 20 minutes on a meter
in Brattleborobut that's another town, another state.
"REDLINE MY HEART 3-PERSONED GOD!" I'm coming home,
home to meat and potatoes and look at that!
old apple tree? or bonsai and me incredibly shrunk?
All these years, I have been wasting, wasting, wasting the poem.
Copyright © 2005 by Larry Kimmel