Driving Home from the Phil

Driving Home from the Phil 

Prokofiev has turned another song tonight

and communication lines run high along the road

carrying the voice in Ohms.  Over tarred poles,

the hanging line on crossbeams

like where Jesus’ arms would be. 

We count the churches too.  But mostly watch the 

oiled trunks.  Through compression

run the endless voices in the wire,

darting by each steeple’s likeness.

I don’t imagine you are thinking that exactly

as the Classical music station saturates our new Bug.

How the flutes seem to call and beckon 

through the Field Effect Transistors. 

But an early recording of Bartok

is playing.  Up ahead a few blocks we can see

the colored hope of strip malls, stranded amid

every denomination.  You are circling your lips. 

I can smell the red pigment. Staring all angles into the

lit vanity mirror.  You say, “Pull into Hank’s Market.

I want to get some wine.” In your den, the Gallo jug goes,

and you feel warm. And Charles Ives is telling us about

star spangled something old Kentucky home.  You unclick

your compact: ensign of a girl.  Next morning, Aunt Jemima

on low heat in a pan and stirring eggs in batter.  You’re so cute,

I mean with your hair all bed-thrown but you feel compelled to cook.

                                                             Robin Reda

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