Two Poems
Fridays
Afterwards, they’re too used to it all
to weep anymore in a parking lot
at such a normal thing as parting,
birds coming or going, all the trees
putting off or on their leaves. There’s
the usual pre‑Weekend errands,
he gets Kitty Litter and Light Bulbs,
she Salmon and trash‑bags.
What they are expected to bring home
and what they do. Then there's
the left turn and the right, the predictable
nature of the antipodal, the Spring to the Fall
of it all while the lights in every direction,
at every intersection blink their easy advice—
to stop or go or to proceed with caution.
Highway Love
There’s always a reason for leaving,
The lurch of a crow off
the edge of the highway, pink
meal of turtle stringing behind,
bloody October’s first
sumac clots.A road like this makes poor metaphor,
the relentless possibility of mirage,
the lack of a rider
save reverie herself who favors
each love song more who turns
the radio louder
until the car’s a bubble
burst if stopped.—Bruce Taylor, Eau Claire, WI
