Idiolexicon: 10/9/2006


Myron Michael Hardy

Road Trip

Days have brooms sweeping suns from skies
while cars clock roads from Michigan to California.

I smell years in the air of this house
falling apart around itself.
One tenant wears a cross. Can't leave the city,
been there too long. Raccoons know black squirrels,
everything is bleeding, blending, a pleated seam
chasing the dream of common language.
The moon’s a monitor, a white wafer on a blue plate.

A day is aged, to taste how much it weighs is filling.
Swallow it fast and find a branch
skinned for walking. As time climbs into a hammock,
forgets the world there, sleeping away an inch of May
or June, and assumes we’re better off for it.
Are we? The tenant cooks and cleans,
lives and dreams the traffic of people packing
up and spreading over the globe.
Expansion denotes broad horizons,
roots in suitcases to go.
Hands ready to replant, work a new garden.

At night, walls hide things,
stick smells inside cracks and swallow insects.
Doors swing open, in the name of love,
and invite strangers to crash on couches.


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