Lost In Translation
Missed Connections in Brooklyn
lost on I – 95 somewhere between Washington and Wyoming on an improvised
imaginary road trip, holed up in an Orwellian hot house reading
Robert Louis Stevenson and roasting in our silver snow suits
with red cross backpacks
lost
inside our lucid dreams and standing by a water fountain of cracked cement
that’s shaped like a swan but there is no water, the fountain is dry
and it’s two hail Mary’s before we hit the taco bell hoping
they let us drink in
the air
conditioning
so we can finish the last 3 pages and move closer to the city of angels where
we’ll buy a permanent place with enough space for a
swimming pool and a reflection
pond
where the birds will gather and the leaves will rest
and the grass will grow
forever
Her Two Cents
This new piece from Brooklyn poet Lee Taylor is one of my new favorites. While the poem may be describing a West Coast road trip, I imagine it as a journey from DC to the coastline community of Wyoming, RI – a place not terribly far from where I once lived. The term city of angels might refer to Los Angeles, but it think it can also refer to any place that somehow saves you, don’t you think?
