Wyandotte

It’s winter and I’m cold, grilling opposites on the burner

to satisfy old cravings I just remembered from my childhood.

This house is whittled from elegant dust, which tumbles from

crevice to corner. Some howls and hums always grace my waking.

I remember bible stories from the cartoons, and anatomy

lessons I learned at the carnival, aiming darts at Farah Fawcett.

The griddle spits. Somewhere Lee Majors remembers his own version of things,

the pining vacuous stretch of teenage summers, of wandering his dead town.

He has a lot of questions:

What ghosts become when they die, and how to learn to walk again.

Affluent quarterbacks smile when the camera flash asks, but

the defensive back must at some point question his role in how things play out.

The long term, beyond the lighted clock that eventually empties the seats

of even the most devoted aficionados, requires a more expansive huddle.

But the questions remain, dog him at night, crease his sheets and spoil his breath.

Playing God only makes the earth flatten, forces the horizon to stretch out forever ahead.