Transit

by Bruce Holsapple

Opened hood of my truck
“hunkered down”
some tricky sunrise,
the spark plugs—

A grassy sparse yard
fenced in, old boards
gusts of wind
opening, slamming
a screen door

sense of abandoned,
of banging away—
the ghost in the machine
cloudy equation, inside & out
who caused what
in retrospect

the whole wheel busted
a leaky tree axle
a vast category mistake
the interior holiday traffic
reeling thru space
needing industrial lights
dirt roads

“hardened & capable”

I pick up on the usual suspects:
a black & yellow bumble bee
looking for a nesting place
an old Sarah Vaughn album called “Sassy’’
an old T-shirt called fitting
plastic daffodils

my favorite aunt, diseased
Marjorie, with prayer beads
my favorite bird, the chicken
genetically designed

feel stalled? American Express
can get you cash
anywhere, at anytime:
don’t feel at home without it

feel small? the White House declared
the Afghani Resistance asked for
American aid in Riyadh, today,
& we send our best
rocket launchers. Our elected salesmen
disguised as birds of prey
as natural selection

Just get your boot in the door
like this guy, say 55,
in a silly McDonald’s uniform
sweeping the floors
working his spooky way to the top

There’s game afoot, Sherlock shouts
It takes two to know one

O duplicity!
psychic split between
here & now, plus & minus
yes & no, what I do
versus what I say, engine & engineer

O concrete pathways
& pathologies, the tangled wires
& electric contrivances

the asphalt byways
grit & grease
Off we go

pretty is as pretty does

an overture of rocks & shrubs
sincerely photographic
(with a touch of make up)
the austere sand
transformed into nether lands
tarred passages
a forest into bored feet

this foreclosed horizon/
Does the water sound alarmed?
Why then is it running

“We begin bombing in 5 minutes”

O my disastrous daughter of solitude
I never expected it to be so arranged:
I pick up a package of tomatoes
at the market; turned over
they show cuts, hidden bruises
all about to go bad
I think that’s reprehensible

l do it all the time

My alibi for remorse?
an absolute zero
I’m caught flatfooted
& pulling the plug

“you’ll hear sucking sounds
going south” states candidate Perot
on a free trade agreement
with Mexico

My industry hath no bounds
I pollute everything

If it moves, it’s related

Watson, bring the gun