Some Kid From Riverhead
A 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