“Goin’ to Houston / baby see my pony run.”
They talk about the recent rain
as if God has set up shop here
where the trees tend to bend low,
a thousand heads of cabbage, praying.
One hour at first then the great Houston wait,
much dragging up and swiping under my hairline
to no avail, cars jump off the bridge rather than wait,
cars turn off and drink in morning bars rather
than wait; and wait; and the light dim red to dim
green turns, and the green turns back to a blood dot
quickly, so one hour becomes six on a string,
each bead a sixty-weight.
I could have been to Marrakesh and back by now,
I pull the locks down and stare into the split
hairs in the rearview mirror, oh God I gotta get
another pack of cigarettes if I spend another hour
here in Houston. Seven hours march by
in line, a parade, a set of hands to hold.