Alone on our porch swing, I hear the Future
Farmers gun their pickups around the square,
squealing tires, blaring horns, bleating
trucker love in quadrophonic, neolithic
stereo. The chilly midnight air smells
faintly of packing house and hydrocarbons.
From behind our garage, the neighbor’s ringtailed
tom yowls his urges. Later he’ll respray
our front door for his pack of floozies. Even
the crickets, their green ship listing hard
to winter, play it hot as gypsies on a binge.
Above this din, waves and waves of snow geese,
bellies lighted by the town, spread out
in u’s and v’s and w’s, calling up
and down the ranks. I watch as the calls
die out and the bellies disappear south
beyond the power plant. Our mantel clock
bongs the half hour. Addled, I try a plea:
“Take me with you!” “This is not my home,” I lie.
Grounded on cats and crickets, pickups fueled
on lovers’ nuts, I stand for our raunchy anthem,
full enough to steal a bike and pump
no-handed clear around the courthouse.
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