1938

I go out the door
On the way to the meat warehouse

Where the brakes squeak
And the fences rust

Where the heat and the butane
Get all up in my shirt

I don't speak any languages
The people here share

Huddling along the fringe shade

The sparkle of the purple hula
No less than the tan tank top

Past one-two-three-four baseball games
Aluminum connecting over mango pits

And into the highway culvert
The gray brown and black squares
Themselves the tags of the state

The sunlight drips down the stone
From an inaccessible spring

The only sound is the combustion engine
And the birds heaving themselves
Over the path, high jumpers
Seem surprised to see other birds

I know there's a reason I'm telling you
How hot and bright the dark wood was