errol miller
At The Crossing
I am the other docile sister
dialing Poetry's hotline
acutely aware of time's passage
here a dream, there a dream
war-torn brown oxford dreams from England
a powerful middle-age dream floundering
off of Florida's exotic coast
playing chicken with life there is
the quaint smell of lives burning
of lilac-scent and hickory ash
we have gone dancing over the rainbow
too many times, too many roomers
emptying their boots in the Southland
at the bridge leading to trashy Evermore
at the elegant Jordan's banks
men in top hats
and maidens form Little Chicago
oiling the gears of the universe
it is an awesome distant charting
pink pancake makeup
red clay
and Tara's fateful forlorn parlor
draped in Spanish moss
and bald green flies euphoric.
