Pome: Rolling Into America

The air is scented with perfumes

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Will Oregon think of moi??? Pic: Paradisio Publishing

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Rolling Into America

when the birds lute their madrigals

and the skies are aslumber

and the chimneystacks breathe on

the milkman carts his cowjuice through the hamlets

i rise, fix steak and eggs and a jug of black coffee this 4.31 in the A M,

watch the carne run bloody

the horizon seep pinks

then:

i fly south

for

Fort Lauderdale

South Beach

the Florida Keys

Dry Tortugas

where the palm trees stand on whitesands

and Cuba awaits 93 miles down the compass

and the flamingos are fuchsia and rosettecoloured

and the coral kay archipelago

is