There was so much green on the outside
that you could be sick, land sick
like sea-sick.
And lost
And sad
And ‘in the middle’
And left to the chance
of a hot meal
when your survival instincts
revive
People spill over the house
like froth from a beer glass
- how well they adjust to
nooks and crannies
how barren are the rooms
- a mind with its ideas, a room with its furniture
gives character
It struck.
what remained weren’t words
but the rusty, rain-watered swing
and
Shah or Shah Impersonator’s bean-counting face
the grassy dirt paths home
and wet winding wheels
and the people at the back (of the car)
gagging you with rock songs
I told you
there was too much green
-Rochelle Potkar
[we won’t talk of the states of mind we carry.]
