Fugitive
The eastern cousin of wild bergamot isn’t
native to our region, but enough have escaped
from gardens to make their presence common,
yellow and purple like the stuffed harlequin clown
of my kindergarten. When as kids we watched
on the copter cam OJ’s white Bronco clear
the interstate, I knew TV would never be
the same. How we touched tongues once
during a sleepover. How your parents
encouraged us to shower together to save water.
How the water when we washed Dad’s Pontiac
for bowling money flushed to the gutter with a
head of foam, but the birds drank it anyway.
When he sold the car and neglected to remove
the plates, the police called at 3 a.m.
because it had been used to rob a pharmacy.
How it’s never fully dark in jail. Always
the permanent fluorescence. Sleeping faces
in “safety light.” I watch my son asleep in the rose
night light, time already galloping
away with him, a mare capable and opaque,
more machine than promise.
How dry its muzzle. How large the nostrils
that flex and blow.