Daily Poem: April 8

Summer poem



Morning is a cough,
a truck driver, arriving
home, exhausted
from the road.

I usually dream about the dead.
They never speak.

The truck drivers speak to me,
but I can’t understand them.

So when I wake up I write down
the color of their shirts, their hair, and
the sense of peace I feel when the wind
shakes the leaves of a maple tree—

it must have been summer—

I used to like the smell of gasoline,
but I don’t anymore.

Still love a drink from the hose, though.