Eric Dickey

I Saw Your Blue Taurus

When I rounded the corner,

a blue Taurus just like yours

pulled into the parking spot

next to my stomach.

The left tire stopped inches 

from the curb of my tongue.

My words wanted to climb in

as if it were you

and your blue Taurus

coming to take me to the Dog’s Head 

rocks of the Lamoille River 

to make our minds green with the forest.

Our lives were like the water 

squeezing through narrow rocks.

The gushing sound, always there.

Can’t talk over it,

just listened to each other’s faces.

The language of moon and leaf,

our caregivers.

Your blue Taurus knows the way.

***

Five Quiet Squirrel Disquisitions

1.       I travel the freeways of trees.

          Branches dart like lightning;

          I leap from strike to strike.

2.      A man sits beneath my sycamore

         writing in his book.

         His thoughts scuttle like ants 

         and caterpillars across the page.

3.      Raccoons sneak in the doggy door at night. 

         They wash their hands in the water bowl 

         and eat the leftover dog food. And so they go, 

         from house to house.

4.      A woman sleeps with her mouth open. 

         She wakes with a fright

         when I claw up the wall. 

5.     This maple is not her tree:

         The carved heart has a P and a K

          but that doesn’t really matter.

***

How Embarrassing

          after Pentti Saarikoski

When I get on the bus,

the driver is alone. 

I sit in the first seat to keep him company.

What time did you start this morning?

How many runs do you do a day?

Do you ever change routes mid-shift?

I see his brow furrow in the mirror,

I am embarrassed by my questions. 

I think I should just shut up, and do.

I can’t tell if the bus driver is relieved or not. 

He probably doesn’t give a shit one way or the

other and doesn’t return my small talk

with more than single syllable simian grunts.

Embarrassing, the lone passenger 

on a big empty bus. Holding a bag

of groceries on my lap. 

I get to my mother’s house

and put the bag on the table.

I give her a hug and sigh

into her shoulder. 

As I leave through her front door, 

I look around to make sure the neighbors 

aren’t throwing spears at me

with their disapproving glares: embarrassing, 

a grown man going to his mother for sympathy,

they say. 

Two more people are on the bus. 

What a relief. I sit across from them. 

One disagrees with the other 

about their aunt’s last wishes and turns to look 

out the window. She squints her eyes tightly

like the bevel of a fine blade.

The other glowers at me with her daggers.

I shift my gaze to their feet

bound tightly in their shoes.

I return home. My wife wants to know 

when I will finish chopping the pile of wood.

I can’t tell her to back off

and have to come up with an answer.

“Saturday.” She hands me the ax

anyway. I go to the pile

but I don’t stop. I keep going.

Back on the bus, the two sisters are here

again. I say hello to the driver; he returns with 

“Afternoon.” looking at his mirrors.

I walk past the women, “Hello again.” 

The one is still looking out the window.

The other smirks at me.

I move to the back of the bus.

We three get off together.

As I reach for the handle by the back door,

my hand brushes one of them

and presses the soft flesh of her breast.

I say “Excuse me” and divert my eyes,

stumbling out of the bus.

They start calling me names,

the bus driver, too. I don’t look back.

I keep my head down and walk 

to my girlfriend’s apartment. 

Embarrassing, a married man 

seeking the comfort of a girl-child.

But still, I enter her building,

run up the stairs, down the 

hallway, and straight up her thigh—

shelter from the Barbarians.

***

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