On Tour at Lake Pontchartrain
Danny, I've been leaving for so long
that the sweet vetch at the foot of the lowest range
has faded into fire pink and these houses
over too many years are just buildings with plain
walls and dark floors, but never home.
I've been leaving
the windows open, the boxes packed and on a perfect
morning when the wind is slow enough
to bring only a drift of wild strawberries
across the landlord's porch, I let my thoughts
grow just as wild, just as perfect
a thousand miles south where the causeway
dissects Lake Pontchartrain into two half-moons
of shimmering gall
that dance, Danny, like two heavy lovers
caught up in the weeds, the tug of the swamp
laying hold with dark secrets, the eyes
of its creatures kept still
as we drive.
We drive, and the blisters on my palms are half healed.
To the west the sun melts and I tell you
that what I know of life so far
is its pouring and could be put into a long, thin
glass, the bottom gone, edges cracked.
Where home is falls prostrate across this hood
and I am leaving
the engine on while two waitresses in the diner
look you over with soft eyes, blue shadow
and tart rouge, even through the windshield, show up
like a blend of cheap loneliness and half-hearted
lust. It seems true now
that life is made of two sides and the one
I have left is likely as mobile as the one
I am leaving,
a tour of visions and strangers' porches
rented for the year, or just for the night, your mountains
up north, Danny, like a focal point with all these
dreams spread out around it, a rock
in a lake-----a ripple, loosened up,
pulling down.
