that glad slant it puts on things at certain hours,
certain seasons,
on dappled lawns and gamboling boys in t-shirts
and shorts?
The sunny sense of things—that’s Myth Number One.
You think,
there can’t really be evil afoot under this sun.
And wronger you couldn’t be. That’s how they get away with it,
how the sun’s their accomplice. It lulls you
into letting down your guard.
The litter tries to warn you, glitters beside your shoes, winks
at you from unlikely places, shows you how
the sun will tart up anything.
No, all’s not sanguine that shines—in fact, it’s safe to assume,
nothing is.
There’s torment behind the bright vinyl-siding.
Migraine and miscarriage.
Bad faith and bad words.
Could I face the day in a Chevrolet?
The boy at the wheel’s bare-breasted. A bottle of gingerbeer
sprouts from his crotch.
Get in. Get situated. Get happy. On a brash whim, snatch the bottle,
kiss its lip, swig deeply.
That cool burn in your throat—that’s happiness.
Spinning wheels are the ticket. The song of the asphalt.
What can hurt you if you’re in transit? if you’re
just whizzing by.
