Home Song
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Up north, pinned behind a steering wheel, whistling over the rooftops and cooling towers, limping under the auburn skirts of street lamps in the early morning light, grinning, wagging, stripping paint like turpentine, cracking the panes of the busted windows, speed walking through the suburbs, standing still, hands tucked into coat pocket, sinking into sleep as easy as a tire iron tossed into new snow, ice where there once was a river, black ice now, river unwritten, unsung, one-way street, thick with fresh snow, untouched, sadness streaming from the city to the next town where it is also white, up the street where people in houses are just starting to wake, hi-beams chasing around the room the shadows and third-shift eyes. [End Page 740]
Cindy King, an assistant professor of English at the University of North Texas in Denton, recently received the PhD degree from Florida State University. Her most recent publications include poems in North American Review, American Literary Review, Cimarron Review, and Barrow Street.
