A cotter pin is missing,
and three wheels wobble
on my red Radio Flyer.
My fingers wrap
the semi-circular grip
on a handle that rises
from an axle that binds
on all but the widest of turns.
Oaks
and those trees
with five-pointed, star-shaped leaves
line the street. Trees
I have never seen
border the road. The dots
and dashes of a firefly hatch
expose a code for particle and wave
along a stretch depleted of trees.
They quote an ancient one.
East, they say – Arabia,
Mesopotamia, and a map of Cathay.
At a Rest Stop
The mile
is a trick imposed
by the Romans. Distance
is an illusion composed
of mathematics, imagination,
and word.
At a Truck Stop
Half-way to Denver, an exit
opens a parenthesis (piss
rhymes with bliss, and I desire
a second opinion
on the span of ring finger to thumb,
sacred spot to ecstatic hub,
and the purple that curls
after white
blooms behind the eye.
I hear country music. I need
a new rhyme.) The curve
of an entrance ramp
brings my parenthesis to a close.
In My Red Radio Flyer
Fueled by the hum of melodies,
many words forgotten,
I deliver fragrant oils
harvested from an island
in a perfumed sea.
I hear lyrics
voiced by a mouth
insinuated by a cloud.
I witness faces in the bark
on both sides
of a slender, Arabian tree.
Rusty Truck 