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Some Kid From RiverheadA Boeing aircraft breaks the sound barrier, heat weaves the air and some kid from Riverhead smokes a dime cigar. There was a pond he'd fish, off docks of fallen oaks. The fish must've moved out he used to joke, throwing rocks at turtles killing one once and dragging it through the dirt till its dead red eye glared him back to his fishing pole. What appears to be still: say the barn its cedar walls turning grey -- mossed with age and aging yet -- some varied day may tumble and rot to dust. Terra firma tumbles round its round sun around the tumbling universe, endless this rotting and tumbling. Some kid from Riverhead sits in a car in the parking lot behind the European-American bank. It's nighttime and across the Peconic looms the white hulk court building. Some kid from Riverhead wonders how much concrete it takes to sink an island. Later, some kid from Riverhead is driving east on 58 past the shopping centers, car dealers, and a lessening of farmfields and woods. He dreams of the old houses. Tossed with thoughts, venturing the night some kid from Riverhead walks in the rose light of the last street lamp amid moths and a mind imagining soul the crickets ask of hurricane the ocean answers the moon is my mistress... What some kid from Riverhead wants to say is "I wouldn't be up this late if I had a field to plow." |
Page Updated: 6/12/00