Here by way of train to the golden state
It’s day three. I ask my host for a cushion
To rest my bones. Something with its ticking
Still intact. I turn myself directly to the sun,
Lace my fingers, close my eyes. I don’t feel it,
But my head bobs back and forth in good measure.
Old dogs dream. And today I race the clouds.
I spread my aches some place on high, and
When I wake, I will tell you, I am born again.
I’ve been to the Land of More, I’ll say, where
Any patron in need of rescue is resuscitated.
The Land of More is beautiful and breathing.
I’ve nearly forgotton about our late July trips to the dump, but I have muscle memory of it.
In the back of dad’s ford truck, I sat on the wheel hub, hemmed in by splintered two by fours with holes in them from the nails I pounded out, some powdery drywall puzzle pieces I helped tear apart, and the broom mom gave me to sweep it all out with when we were done.
“Get it out there, girl!” Dad hollered at me with his thumbs tucked under his overall straps just below the silver buckles. He’d feed me more wood so I could far-fling it, shot-put it, side-wind it, or swing toss our demolition into the hole we called, ‘stinking oblivion.’
I heaved everything we had into a mingled mixed-up mountain of tree branches, cut grass and splintered lumber, being careful not to put a foot too close to the edge. Always, after we finished, dad would wipe his brow with a blue bandana folded four times inside his left pocket, and open the red ice chest to retrieve chilled Visine drops for his tired eyes, along with one fresh soda a piece for him and me.
We’d sit on the tailgate, taking swigs of orange pop. I’d swing my legs out over the great chasm, all satisfied-like.