Quondam 1

Jo Smithey

sent an email

to Jo Jo who

didn’t get it

outside with

her yoyo

under cumulo

wondering

what’s loess,

Jo just

braids her hair

& sends another

to Abdullah,

whose road crew

raises dust

in flat wadis

nearer

Timbuktu

(‘Hey, man,

we there yet,’

‘Too soon —

but what’s that,’

‘O, a howdah,

o’er an

ice truck’)

What May I Say

a marching band,

steps in twos,

a street fair,

the xylophone

leans below

the chimes

he has above

the food stand,

bacon wraps

& sticky cheese

or chili —

a woman parts

her curtains

& her hair,

running with

the napkins

& her dogs

out the door,

‘Stay, stay…’

&, ‘Have at it’ —

the cats are in

a burning tree

by Susan’s house,

the bassoons

& tubas try

‘the shoulder

of the road’

an octave lower —

the woman now

a house cries

& wonders where

the clouds go —

at the window peg —

her jacket is &

thunder rocks

the drummers

by the bay —

thatman’s there

& always with

his kinky hose —

she’s looser

than her shoes

& cuts across

abraded gradients

in shadows of

the widest beeches

the size herself —

an automatic

song in alto

range this side

an endless

rhymeless

primal tense,

the water,

wood & wing

& everything

itself but

screaming —

she’s late for

school & at

this age in

aprons &

barrettes, ah yet,

it never ends —

studying Home Ec

‘& a smattering

of Humility’

& that’s aloud —

her classmates

still in town

break down

at the fair &

conflagrations,

the mewing

& the bar king,

thatman minds

his way down

as always with

the wood wind —

she’s unquiet

reddening &

steady as

an oven at

too many degrees —

she’s kicked it

up a bit,

it’s stuffed

basalt souffle

& bombe flambe,

it is the rage —

have you had it