The night is a field unbounded
by the neat rows of houses and three-flats.
Adventure winds without the need for trains
wheeling to another city, that palm tree sunshine.
A bus pushes through the piercing rain.
Potholes loom full with water-sparkle streetlights.
Music plays rowdy dollar-beer tunes,
the chorus shaking bottles spewing spray
gritty head-forward whistles.
This is a fucked-up town the New York band
sneers on every stage, meaning every town,
even here --
a single drop trails down the windshields.
No one this late believes the clean
make a living filling ledgers
or pumping gas. So much to slam
against the steps against cement.
Puddles never find the doorway hollows
until the first morning route.
And a thousand questions
She said "I'm going to the store."
He heard "going" as in gone --
Did she say this,
or did he?
He turned on the television,
a good game between college powers.
Which teams? He didn't care,
never attended either school.
No, he watched the basketball swing.
snap to the cutter in the lane --
She was in the car,
keys in the ignition,
She would have cried,
but stared at the white garage door instead.
Like countless shopping trips before,
she started the engine.
©2003 by Bill Trudo