And here I bring out the Morgans, dappled
and contentious. The long leather straps
to their martingales, the way their eyes move
independently. The sawdust under lucky
steel. I have not yet exploited the tent stakes
nor the painted sleeper cars. Someone’s in love.

Where’s the harm in mentioning the baskets
dragged in the furrows, brown hands down
the braided rows? Through which the Pullmans
sleep-schlep, as when lust leads you to bump
into something. Lust or the newness.
Now, the adopted son of Sanchez

loses an eye in a knife fight, reminding everyone
around the greasy fire of eucalyptus how much
I miss you. The last Studebaker in Loudon County
coasts to a stop, Ray at the wheel, trunk full
of Mexican red, backseat sagging with the best parts
of a baler. All those sympathetic sighs.

I think we need the last hour of a lightning storm.
The Feds get sloppy and a famous Chilean
ventriloquist breaststrokes to the edge
of your veranda. Luckily, you’re Kay and I
would love you without your father’s
fondness for macaws, lock on the local trade,

collection of Perry Como. That’s me
in the photo, stripped of ephemera, elbows
back on your darning table. It’s not the years
it’s the miles, Indy quipped. I’m blue
in a $10 suit, pardoned of carnality. In
for the distance. That’s your doorbell.