I have created drunken uncles from sackcloth,
lovers from a blue jay's missing tail feathers.
My brother's excited voice rose
like the bark of wet tire on asphalt.
The wobble of my grandmother's head
is the broken wheel of a shopping cart.
My sudden fear, birds kicked up in the underbrush.

Whole towns rise from empty boxes,
skylines twinkling like a fritzed strand of X-mas lights.
The small shops smell of astringent, old books.
Low-slung diners idle along railroad tracks,
tiger lilies and Johnson grass erupting near dumpsters,
one shredded cigar rolling near the door.
Inside, a waitress sweeps quarters from a table,
her forearm now sticky with sugar.
I give her dreams of Chicago,
a produce wholesaler named Brad
who hit her only once but kissed her many times.
I will her my old family farm—
its orchard of apples and pears, hornets carving the fruit hollow.
A possum that trundles the driveway at dusk
while honeysuckle collapses a fence.
And though she wants to idle on the porch, dream of Brad,
I will make her cheek sting, send mosquitoes to drive her in.
I will hire a kind-hearted busboy with a bright future.
Work them the same odd shifts, install a jukebox,
dot the round tables with ugly farmers,
salesmen with liver spots, deviated septums, wrecked voices.
I'll allow dancing in the aisles of the restaurant. Let them have Thursdays off.
And Saturdays, the restaurant closes after lunch.
The rest I'll leave to them.
The rest is up to them.