Photo of that future house
E. Fleischman
A photographer seems to have gone into the future
and taken a snapshot of that house.
The sky and land: gray and brown brush strokes;
that peeling, white house at the end of the road: i live there alone;
a vast life, for i hadn’t expected to be by myself.
There are no hills nor valleys. The road leads down
to the pond (which miraculously still has some fish).
It’s outside of Hannibal, Missouri, U.S.A., and the weather bellows
history in the old man’s heart. Volumes of Twain
on the shelves among my own bound works.
The echo of the wind. If you visit that house,
i will serve you fresh catfish with okra and garlic bread.
A photographer seems to have gone into the future
and taken a snapshot of that house.
The city’s definition is crowd; the streets are full
and precariously maintained. That house is a crown.
My lover and i enjoy the afternoons.
In April, we cheat on our taxes. Our child
is the offspring of Bruce and Sonya, and they, we, Sam and Alice,
watch the child take its first miraculous steps!
My love and I had a child that was taken.
San Francisco, California, U.S.A. is a hell of a town.
It gives; it takes. Together we prepare for the long haul.
There is music everywhere: people in commerce, crowds, machines;
and from here we can hear the sound of the world beyond.
