A long freight swims upwind. Each 4 P.M., the river
limps upwind on schedule. Angus doze beneath
the cottonwoods that flare and lean. The town beyond
the pasture, once a speedtrap noted for harsh fines,
now bypassed by I90, bakes the same dead gray
the arm bakes sheered by lightning from the tree.
The red caboose drags west sorry. The town drunk
staggers to the tracks and waves it gone.
With mean traps bypassed, no more fines to pay,
we’re free to love the movement east, eastbound trees,
traffic on the freeway. Speed law: safe and sane.
Real speed: blinding. Real chance to make it: none.
Our best chance: love the leaf flash spreading white
above the napping cows. The town drunk knows
the world blurs, drunk or sober, and the world moves on
out of reach against the wind or with.
Boxcars full of cows go west for slaughter.
Underground, seepage from the river
ignites another green. The gray arm left by lightning
turns sheer silver in the rain. Real chance
to make it: none. Life becomes a hobby seen
like this from hills, the empty freight returned.
The town drunk waves goodbye to cars that flash east
safe as cattle when their dreams revive the grass.
for Ellen Skones