there will be further speculations

And a poem, written yesterday night. It takes place in Kansas, of all places.

Coming Home

Grain silos and
Ancient Cadillacs
You speak in gay whispers
In immortal throw-away
Formica pink in Main
Street soda fountain
Mordant vacancy and
Great open space, wind.
Your dead home town
Vast and echoing with
Unspoken gossips and
Undone deeds.
Whiplash does not exist
Only broken necks and
Boyfriends married now
To the dull. Never
Livestock, never a creature
Stir, never a ray
Of sunlight that
Illuminated clapboard or
Pebbledash and scrub.
The same dim
Tiny cubes of window glass
Watch curbside clean and gray
And the sea's waves
Flounder 1,300 miles away
But sound beneath
Ashed flagstones. You
Speak to uninhabited
Corners and to languid
Dancing motes of dust
Yet ears hear
Oh unknown ears listen.

The cheapest, nay, the only
Scotch on the rocks and
Giving up smoking
Leaving
Lipstick on the glass

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