Poetry: Daniel McCann
In a Sharp, Well-Tailored Suit
Near town a vast
cavern mouth in the
ground had emerged
and I found that it led
to a tavern beneath
Brooklyn where
a smooth ancient jazz
soothed my difficult
mind. It’s where
I first met Lady.
She gently took me
by the collar and
led me to Naples, its
streets like beautiful
stage doors, and to
Strasbourg for stollen,
then an afternoon by
warm coastal ruins
where we finally came
face to face. A brief
blindness and ginger
glare, then it was
over just as quickly.
I returned the next
day dressed in my
Nehru-fashioned
wedding suit from
years past. But
getting back in was
impossible. The opening
had been filled with
topsoil. A man in
a wool vest stirred
some dust with his
work boot. His face
was like an old cork.
Can you see, Vandita,
my strange substance?
Turnpike
At dawn they stopped
for a pitcher of beer
and some Spanish
peanuts. All around
equipment filled the lot.
Lydia slowly advanced
toward the mustard
sleeves of a bulldozer
chained to its transit
bed, oozing emerald
lube from its socket.
Raising his hand like
a visor in the mild pink
light, Leon said, it must
be the year for anything
goes, referring to world
news. Then a lofting smell
brought them to.
They shared a paper
bag of popcorn shrimp,
fried chicken and clams.
They were grateful and
set off again, ready to
pay their return.