|
Poems by Dan Sicoli
rift
i swear i saw mr. conrad today
pumping gas into his rusting pontiac lemans
at smokin' joe's self-serve
on the tuscarora reservation
word was he went deep into texas
to seek the blistered callous blues
of uncharted border towns
but here he was
elvis sideburns
a three-day beard
sporting a brown leather pilot jacket
and muddy work boots
where were his trademark rattlesnakes?
after he topped off the tank
he holstered the nozzle
and hopped in the front seat
removed his sunglasses
and massaged his eyes and forehead
with both hands
it was then
i spied a toolbox in the back seat
instead of a guitar case
tossing the shades back on
he quickly adjusted the rear-view mirror
and quietly sped away up indian hill
leaving behind a cloud
of invisible exhaust
as real as any ghost
(First appeared in KYEzine)
©2003 Dan Sicoli
Back to Poetry Home
|
