Sunday morning, a place

in a little gravel town— long road like a ribbon

marking the ravine of gospel—

some toast and coffee in a lack of concern,

meat market on one side, television shop

on the other, a smattering of houses— families

weird-bred, stinking of unwashed clothes

and a stream of starlings in the mulberries

hedging the railroad's diagonal cut into the hot zone

of heaven's brain.

Driver pulls beside a row of lamppost wreaths,

leaves the sucker running as he sits

at the counter, puddles lighting the sky

Sunday morning, a place

in a little gravel town— long road like a ribbon

marking the ravine of gospel—

some toast and coffee in a lack of concern,

meat market on one side, television shop

on the other, a smattering of houses— families

weird-bred, stinking of unwashed clothes

and a stream of starlings in the mulberries

hedging the railroad's diagonal cut into the hot zone

of heaven's brain.

Driver pulls beside a row of lamppost wreaths,

leaves the sucker running as he sits

at the counter, puddles lighting the sky

blue, a tall stack, hash browns. I slept there

many days with a pad of paper under my head,

Nutcracker Suite playing, some kid banging

out 100,000 on pinball. I was becoming

a cup half-full, the coffeemaker thumping maniacally;

the waitress slid the fabric of her hip

against my shoulder.

three-cheese omelet, quarter playing Merle Haggard,

the short order dwarf sweated in his cage of steam.

Cash register rang its miracles to the floor.

Marijuana withered tall behind the propane tank.

A coward rose to confront the sun and keep running away.

Swallows swung overhead. I drank my consciousness

to the horizon. The sun grew round and red.