with it’s dusky rhythm
of old Irishmen and tall Swedes,
the drunk college girl singing
Radiohead in the alley behind my building.
"The winter is goddamn cold"
the old men say without looking at each other
without enthusiasm
without saying goddamn.
Always the black river inks along with a Cajun swagger,
the sea, a thousand miles away
in every direction.
It’s hard not to feel landlocked.
Tomorrow if my station wagon
is swallowed by a snowdrift
I will rise like a will o’ the wisp
and wander some heady southern swamp.
Lost in my own wild May mind,
a summer dress clings to my thighs.
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