Elevation
My favorite public garbage can
sits here near the corner, often
in shade but always convenient
on my hungry way that needs
a stop for water, banana, and depot
for the peel whose bulk is now
unnecessary, plus the versatile
napkin having performed its
functions. So I celebrate the hollow
on this undistinguished curb,
chipping and lacking in historical marker,
but in a perfect spot and never too shallow.
Auto-Atavism
Canned chicken soup is the odor
my armpits exude after a workout
and the work, walk, and jump
of a full day and the expression
of self’s own sweat that brooks
no ever-damming by perfumed
deodorant that silks over hair
and hidden skin for a morning’s
worth of scent and a slew of apres-midi
hours before the patient river bursts
to release the ancient, inherited scent
that would have reared after toil
in wood, field, or mine so yokes
my self with those centuries
in effusion and flesh-empathy
even as the digits have diminished
to cold red zero on the stationary bike,
which concludes my efforts
to excel until the next twenty-four,
whose salt, water, and what-have-you
will eventually pool to flow and stain,
so always take me so far back.
Road and Crew
They are stripping the streets
as one might peel dead
sunburned skin from a forearm
more or less straight but they
pummel with pneumatic hammers
and pick with curved and heavy blades
that tired pavement so turn it
into cookie crumbles that crunch
under my slow tires directed by fluorescent
flags, arrowed lights, and reddened arms
that will peel with tattoo ink or not, no shield
from the sun that August imposes, gouging
into tissue with unseen axes and pikes that will
expose the injury and lasting legacy upon and under
hides much younger than the streets just feet below.
Equipoise
Mundy Street dips and rises
where the old mines hollowed
out its legs, so one day might
collapse as a man well drunk
or fighter struck with a Joe Frazier
left hook. So must have been more
stable when the beverage outlet
sat on a level lot back from this
bending, breaking asphalt where
dad garnered his twelve bottles
of beer in a latticed wooden case
and we were left with the choice
of soda flavors an equal twelve—
so a welcome stop even if off-brands—
but always a few colas and lemon-limes
to eight of miscellany—root beer,
glowing orange, or even sometimes cream—
variety enough in the ratio and wisdom
of the double choices to take back
up the mountain beyond the roller-coaster
of this road in the East End, sweet for us
and sedating for him again on solid ground.