Aster

Itchier than an itch begging outside

the Lanacane factory, lonely as a boner

working a disco in Gore-Tex pants,

I still had the patience for baseball.

I used to drive from Montreal to New York.

Past the red hots of the Adirondacks,

by the little hot dogs of the Mohawk Valley,

to the coney dogs around Yankee Stadium.

The asters on the roadside banks, wispy blurs,

could be squeezed one day from the roots up

to draw out at least three Canadian poems,

but until then I would just have baseball.

Ready as Reddi-wip but unwilling

to do much but pray God helps the Yankees.

The lesson of American Literature,

after all, is just drive until you’re alone.