based on a poem of mine entitled "Plastic Mountains"; originally published in CARE (
www.carecovidartresource.com).
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Here with Summer
I am watching a child vomit
marbles on an empty carousel.
Since the sickness came,
the theme park my dad would wake
up early for looks like a broken chain
around a clenched neck. I must confess:
it is spring & I am stuck
in the apartment
of my head.
We are no longer to leave the house.
My desk is crusting into sandpaper
& my neighbor hacks up golf balls
in the shower. I worship steam walls
lysol & think about the putt putt course
with plastic mountains, my burning palms
gripping an emissary of germs. I think of
my father, missing a day of work for me
& of all the fathers now furloughed.
Things are beginning to blur.
With bulging chests, grackles
are perched callously shitting
cotton candy on my car.
The evening grins stupidly
as a bruised clown,
& I am sure a cataract of beer
is gushing down the mountain
gutters as teenagers slur
Somebody’s gotta pull Summer
outta the rushes, motherfucker
& maybe they have a point:
the pedal boat swans
are on hunger strike;
their cage too big & blue to elude,
it’s like I'm always flying downwards
they croak, heads sagging lower by
the day; yet there’s been reports of
flapping, a beautiful clamor
in the early morning hours
from construction workers,
discounted by the local news
as their hardhats have grown
too heavy to use & besides
strikes aren't like coughs,
they have a tendency to spread
if covered. With chafed elbows,
I sit here with Summer,
watching cellophane sprout
out the crests of plastic mountains.