A desert junkyard would refuse your wrecked and wretched heart,
smashed, beaten, rusted, twisted, too often taken apart
with those small irreplaceable valves missing, or stolen,
clogged with a build-up of cold cruel caution,
you've learned to drive in steel tip boots.
Like zucchini in September, you can't stand anymore. Except--
sometimes the Ferris Wheel stops with you on top,
unexpected iris bloom,
and the Van Gogh is Van Gogh.
Sometimes you get oysters,
the UPS truck parks for you,
and Door Number One is the right door.
And then a morning when you wake like the dawn of vacation,
an unmistakeable promise of warmth already in the sky
and the highway all yours; someone you love loves you.
published in Stick
and in Zillion to Zero Odds (chapbook), Longhand Press