The apple trees are pink blossom today and all
streets are construction depots, hotrods tearing pavement
from yellow hell into the green pool hall heaven.
I slugged the cellulose capsule at the bottom of a Dixie cup
into my mouth, and now I can’t stop complaining.
The foreman, conductor, engineer, Jerry From Across The Way,
and Phil The Accountant, sleep at their desks.
Their hands latched on suspenders like—yup!
Full as swans squatting in the paint factory:
an orgy of reds and greens and purples and greens
and reds and purples; if I only knew where to drive—
on a cliff, a roof, in caverns, my car in the parking garage,
then I’d drive. I don’t haul or cry for any victory,
or pray, oh I pray, but only in proxy: shit man,
I pray I left the car door locked: things like that.
Noah Burton was born in Kansas, grew up in Virginia, and now lives in New Hampshire. He holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of New Hampshire. Most days, he works at a bakery over the border in Maine, teaches at New England College and the University of New Hampshire, and plays in the gothic americana band, House of 1000 Sports Cars. He also co-produces the poetry sound blog Poetic Vox: Poets Under Effects. Noah’s poems have been published in gobbet, Baldhip Magazine, Basalt, The Doctor TJ Eckleburg Review, among others, and he is a recipient of the 2015 Dick Shea Memorial Prize in Poetry judged by Tanya Larkin.