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3 Poems by Taylor Graham |
GUMBO She sets down the predictable bowl, stirred deep and homesick in a backward kitchen. He strikes that fabled pose she fell in love with: rebel in love with the idea of getting away, a catalog of graceful scattered things getting in the way of gravel road and open air. Dead, gone. Trying to reach a love Oh languid loss, she hums, everything's always the same. The two of them stuck in a myth of passion, the nothing-left-to-pawn of bad judgment. RUBICON 4X No matter, fender mud and bunged- up bumper, he's affixed a tiny flag to each antenna; hand-lettered TORQUE BUSTS WILDERNESS across the tail- gate; stowed the 12-pack rations in an ice-chest along with winch and jack and side-arm. He sports the old red-white-&-blue tanktop with vest and stand-alone Levis and hike-yourself-out-if-you-have- to boots. And now he revs and rolls toward staging, 10 a.m. July the 4th, Independence & Main. EYE WITNESSES Driving down that tricky stretch of Grizzly Road, we both guessed "old lady in a red bathrobe clutching her loose ends about her." Our headlights shifted for the next bad curve. "We could identify..." if somebody reports a headless handless armless lady missing on Christmas Eve with no feet. We'll tell them "She looked like a huge red velvet bow on a mailbox." How we laughed at seeing the same thing wrong, some- body's Xmas decoration set to wander off the short end of the year. But sweetheart, when two people think the very same thought, at the very same time, they've been too long in love or collusion. What's the use of four good eyes if you don't see at least two different views?
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