Sometimes we leave with rainbows in our
pockets,
and sometimes we travel without them,
knowing there are always rainbows
about;
and yet a crumpled rainbow is its own
gum wrapper,
as the saying goes, prized for its
juicy-rejoicing-mad scent,
and one cannot always stop to replenish
the supply;
price-per-pound, mothers in line at the
check-stand,
kids in tow, everyone going somewhere,
everyone missing home, by whichever
grand route;
did I say rainbows, when I meant
windmills;
kids, when I meant goats; pockets,
instead of boats;
that we pass beneath willows, their
locks in the stream;
deep as anything; deep as your
grandmother’s mixing bowl;
west by way of a smoking train, staking
your claim,
sinking your well; it’s something
like that, along with its smell;
fun, too; I thought I had mentioned
that; or am I thinking
of grandpa’s hat, and the way it sat,
and that he would,
somehow, die and be right back;
oh, grandpa, rainbows and wagon wheels,
have I really lived that long, that
white walls and trailer tongues
should be all rusted, busted, and
cracked;
apparently so; so apparent is that,
that I forget now
whether rain-mills are windrows, or the
train’s on the track;
how about that; one for you, one for
me; sweet, in my lap.