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| D. Brink, 2007 |
A country boy has more time on his hands,
is used to a lull before a friend arrives,
but once the haggling gets going
the headache of it all again
pans out. Inside a week
he’s offering mother’s sandwiches
and his pulse falls to a whisper…
whatever he had to say folded in
the chiaroscuro of the whipping
action of a spatula
in - what drew Caravaggio
I’m sure - the heartrending drum roll
of being so close, almost welcome,
yet broken by encroaching said hinterlands
ever demanding, wilderness abutting
where wolves know when to wallow
in a varicose dawn where yakety-yak alarms
resurrect zombie video game mobs for the du jour
dangling off in pickup trucks down roads less traveled,
the whole kit and caboodle tuned to the conglomerate
as if nomadic time were a luxury
and we were never anywhere anyhow,
never taking a load off the dialectical day
of drifting into subsistence cage effects,
broadcasts inoculating the local grange,
fears bleeding into any film noir dolly or pally.
(Tacoma 2003; Tamsui 2012)
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