vignette

I may or may not know

the intricate workings of poetry

but I know how to work my own poems.

I know the image at the morning mirror

is a reflection of me, but the reflection

belongs to the mirror.

then this happened:

I recall my young sister in 1956

learning to drive in our father’s

heavy, 1953 Oldsmobile 88, its massive

steering wheel nearly the diameter

of God’s one good eye.

she navigated a right turn, hand-to-hand

from the bottom of the wheel,–– awkward

but it worked.

I know because I was sitting in the backseat.

as to what I know of my own poetry?

well,–– it’s from the backseat.

I know that.