Saturday at the Abbotsford Auto Parts Store

On the way home

we pull off Highway 29

near Abbottsford

to get gas.

It’s been raining since

we left Minneapolis.

An Amish buggy

clip clip clips

into the auto parts store

across the road.

The horse doesn’t question,

just stands there,

dripping.

Maybe they sell

tractor parts, too; or maybe

the man just wanted

out of the rain,

wanted to walk on the smooth, dry, floors,

wanted to walk up and down the shiny weedless furrows of

floor mats, motor oil, windshield wiper blades, headlights

stacked squarely in piles, shoulder to shoulder

on shelves, swinging slightly from the pegs

as he walks by, the headlights

briefly reflecting his dark form

like the shadow of a cloud

on a lake.

His hand

trails in the air just above

the perfectly machined boxes

before he pulls his hat low on his brow,

thinking about want and need,

thinking about his horse,

the hours since breakfast,

the nails in his shoes,

the blinders alongside his big brown eyes,

before he walks out past the girl

scrolling through nothing and everything

on the screen in her hand,

walks out past the bright orange

slow moving vehicle triangles,

walks out without buying anything at all,

into the driving rain.

 

 

Three Fields along Highway 42

i.

The broad face

of the February field

is tilted to the falling snow –

broken cornstalk stubble

waiting for the razored plow.

ii.

The snow, the field,

the fog rolling in waves

off of the lake,

a blank page.

The split rail fence,

the bare trees,

the broken barns,

black parentheses.

iii.

Beyond the fence,

nothing

but a white screen.

Along the road,

silhouettes of trees

suddenly appear and fade,

appear and fade

in the frames

of the car windows,

somber fireworks

in black and white

in a memory

belonging

to someone else.

Midwest Poultry Show

Behind me a man at the Minneapolis airport

says: “I’ll see you at the Midwest Poultry Show”

except what I hear is not that but

“Midwest Poetry Show” which makes

 

slightly less sense but it’s too late,

I am already thinking of their sleepless night,

all the poets waking before dawn

and coaxing their balky poems into cages

 

lined with torn strips of newspaper

that are soon bunched into nests and absently

pecked at and read while they, the poems, make

derisive crowing comments to each other as the poets

 

drive their dented trailers carefully into the sunrise,

drinking bitter black coffee from the Hudson or Farmington

Kwik Trip until they arrive at a metal barn, bleary-eyed

and hopeful, now with combs and scissors and spray bottles

 

in hand they are fluffing out long metaphors and snipping

at tufts of too-flowery and winding prose, was that

too much? Well, it’s too late now, it’s all over

but the crying as bespectacled readers circle the cages

 

skimming unfairly, squeezing the stanzas and

splaying the words out at the ends, looking for

allusion, alliteration, allegory, imagery, rhymes

and near rhymes, iambic pentameter and free

 

verse while the poets stand silently near, cups of coffee

long gone cold under the giant ceiling fans, kicking stray

punctuation like curses along the concrete floor, already

reading the look in the readers’ eyes, thinking about next year,

 

when, surely, but surely,

they will place.