May 5, 2014

The Iowa Review - - CONTENTS - Wayne Miller

To­day I would rather not climb into the cock­pit of my poem. Last night I thought, To­mor­row, liftoff!—

but now the sun has opened its mouth and out comes the day in a mul­ti­phonic chant. Comes the shadow

of the muntin, the saw-whine of the neigh­bor’s garage. Comes Mr. Red­hat with his seven dogs

drag­ging him around the park. Comes the quixotic street sweeper swirling some water onto the as­phalt.

Come he­li­copters, come air­planes: in­sects crammed im­plau­si­bly with peo­ple. Come oil fires of vi­o­lence—

lucky for me they’re off in the fringes; to­day, here, they don’t ex­ist. I’m go­ing nowhere.

I’ll sit back with the hatch still open— like in the Smith­so­nian— eat­ing my sand­wich and yo­gurt.

When I pop out my face to say Hi, you might in that moment (this moment) wave back.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.