The drive only takes an hour.
Every stoplight is a spontaneous green.
From the cockpit the view is always
yesterday, & is accompanied by soundtracks
based on songs from a formica-counter 60's.
The whole thing is stunning, as light enters
the room on angles through peepholes. We
are allowed to watch. The equation comes
with cruise-control blinking from a
footstoll where a red sock slobbers down
one side of its chin. It seems drowsy &
looks like us. But before we can invite it
home, a squadron of duck decoys fly across
the patch of green lawn. They ignore the
warning signs & are never even punished.
But the one that passes the picture window
on a pulley is struck blue before reaching the
airfield, which is really a forest bottled to
appear beautiful. Still, it remains shocking
how few of us are any good at trigonometry.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Maurice
Oliver would be pleased to hear from you.