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Collected Poetry

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Diesel Eddy  

Book three of impromptu trilogy.

  Dirt and Grease


I did not think to renew their worry, yet I did
as they waited for it to occur.  In a coffee shop
between the diesel, the grease and the baggage, I was
for them, a thrill—was, and would remain

the already brooding lump in their throats.  They hoped
I would share the little details and renew their hope
for reform—near the river, or in a john by the interstate.
They hoped my warmth would reach their loins, softly

enough to be successful.  They wished my breath would
grow into something with their wealth of chromosomes.
They had used their eyes and they'd tricked them again
into scheming:  I sat in the diner between departures,

content among the menus, mid-postcard, ready to rectify
them, and be thanked for their abuse and afflictions.



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