At The Bar-Code Ranch
A stellar job in the bullpen
C.B.S. Baseball
I lie in a converted garage, sun coming up
and the chuck-chuck of unfamiliar birds
from Lake Mizell.
The lamp grows ineffectual
under a skylight; the great world
washes in, humid, composed of small numbered parts.
Sometime after nine, the classical music station stops
for the landing of a space shuttle
a sonic boom
shakes the bungalow
and Vladomir Horowitz
is abruptly terminated.
Yesterday, at New Smyrna, north of Canaveral:
knotted shoreline
looking out from a timbered interior
on the Atlantic;
driving inland on Local 40,
a two-lane, the Beach Boys on air,
to Winter Park, inches above the water table.
Today, flying north, from Florida’s eighty degrees
to Washington’s forty-something
a river far below
in South Carolina.
Salt-pork and black-eyed beans
“soul food” – and cheap – in D.C’s low
where U.S. presidents
fall like leaves . . .
Consume and Die!
Wednesday
under the pines
looking out over the waters of Potomac
a torn Bush-Quayle poster in the grass
the morning after the election,
and down on Canal St
a bag of crushed Busch beer cans
reminds me that poetry exists.
Up at 3040 R St N.W.
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poem by Laurence James Duggan
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