Richard Kenney(b. 1948)
Aubade (Richard Kenney)
Cold snap. Five o'clock.
Outside, a heavy frost—dark
footprints in the brittle
grass; a cat's. Q u i c k coffee,
jacket, watch-cap, keys.
Stars blaze across the black
gap between horizons;
pickup somehow strikes
its own dim spark—an arc—
starts. Inside, familiar
metal cab, an icebox
full of lightless air,
limns green with dash-light. Vinyl
seat cracks, cold and brittle;
horn ring gleams, and chrome
cuts hard across the wrist
where the sleeve falls off the glove,
as moon-track curves its cool tiara
somewhere underneath your sleep
this very moment, love—