Run the Red Lights. Ed Skoog
a burglar.
Driving
Like a diplomat with an assassin
closing in, I never take a second
way home, draw my string figure
around Topeka streets, stairstep
and spiral through neighborhoods
split and stitched across railroad,
highway, and river. I’ve never known
anyone’s body as well as I learn
each turn the turn an idea makes,
luck-damaged and sprawling grid
which compels me to connect
each street with bouquet of song
unspooling in the passenger seat.
Beyond the city, I want to hear the whole
concept album, drive to college towns
for better radio, remote chapels, the ice
cream store north with its one
pinball machine featuring Kiss.
The travel placemat from before the interstate
recommends scenes along Highway 24
including Topeka’s Ira Price Cafe
east of the cloverleaf. Breakfast is any hour,
chicken is a specialty. It opens in time
for church, air-conditioned and modern.
People in the petite houses of Kansas
look out windows and nothing
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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