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Poem

I.	Daybreak

what glint of morning
is this where the rusty bloom of chain link fences
cuts the turf of rowhouses

the weeds still talk with the legs
of crickets as the post-dawn moon
fades like a bubble

here the old Norges and RCAs 
the transmissions extracted like tongues
make tombstones in the yard

the scattered habits of a mechanic

early chests exhale
		crankshafts turn

Chevrolets on storm
are fused to the moment
breaking thunder from the curb


II.	Kids
      
dirt streaked
	         all our bellies were round

dirt streaked
	        consulting our nerves with
wide open lungs

dirt streaked 
we all ate dirt
		   dug tunnels
			         played trucks

dirt streaked 
		the swing set whistled
rocking hard
     		in the recesses 
			of an afternoon


III.	Locked

the  day lost in some 
file of physical laws
was locked like the hands of the typist

locked like beer cans on the porch
where a laborer reads want ads

fixed like the eyes of the 
police

it’s why chained dogs
never stop barking

why housewives keep doing
their laundry


IV.	Production

nothing to lose
come welders with your brilliant rods
disarm the dark where the cracks of hell
leak out

come secretaries
run with the wolves again*

migrant workers sing
the bosses don’t know the words

for the prints of innocent men
still grip the prison walls

the halls of high schools
still murder the breath
of the original

cab drivers
pocket the secrets of Washington

coal miners
dig loose the words
		hiding under Kentucky

the graveyard shift will begin
when the city simmers
		the pot of a quiet army

let them tell
no loss but the threat
of collectors
no loss but the sweat of
your palms

* Taken from an old folktale 
Published Black Buzzard Press 1982

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