Curves—The Beach Poems, Day Three

The Beach Poems, Day Three

Thunder shakes the distance
like a load of pulpwood

pitching bucks on a sharp
curve. The Chevy C60

leans in slow motion, then
skids into the grass.

The driver, a black man,
always a black man, wakes

in blood and glass. Sweat
stinks the vinyl seat

with the smell of dead work
and difference. I stop—

no good Samaritan, just
a man—hoist him out

and clean him up. We
find a dirty liquor store

and buy a pint, sipping
what crazy heat blows away

the rain. A fine woman built
with double action

and tandem lift walks
by. We drink and leer and

catcall, felling all
the troubles of our day.


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