Christopher Blackman

Sunrise, first
torch: fresh motorcade—
day thawed

in the Capitol as roundabouts
lead us where we go.
All manner

of hornets buzzed.
This was spring then
and warm in the shaded grove,

with rain wetting
my bones in a way
I'd always craved. 

A classic truck, powder blue,
parked curbside—
opposite of airbags:

a metal steering wheel to cave
your chest at slightest
provocation—some blessed

gray day when everything
was in wane, lichens
sprouting like stubble, fronds—

it wasn't a dream, it was
a place. You were there. And you.





Years ago, a rockabilly at a bar once laughed while explaining to me that his vintage pick-up truck was so unsafe that even a minor fender bender would probably kill him. I have periodically wondered about his whereabouts, which was a starting place for this poem.