STREET’S END, GAINESVILLE, FLORIDA
But nothing does, of course:
the avocado sofa in the weeds
will keep some time, a whaling ship
of corduroy and springs
sea-struck, side-split, gutted
on a beach of motor oil and gravel,
the world itself now sunk
rammed by a monster storm,
its few survivors mustering
what dignity catastrophe can spare —
the arms of laundry posts
barnacled with rust
but open still, the calcinated box
of a pine dresser gray with age
still willing to hold
the secrets of earthworms.
A skeletal Ford.
Its vaguely human form.
This poem was one of the two first poems I placed in a first-rate poetry journal, back in the late 90’s. The other one was “What Vallejo Calls Notre Dame Bridge.”
The very talented Cathy Cullis kindly featured them in her site recently.