Perigean Tide

by Robert LeBlanc

And even now there’s something vaguely exciting
About being alive, now with New England turned old,
Now with the sandy beaches fucked and come
In the gas tank that leaves a viscous mess in place
Of the last few miles of gas, now with the land
All conquered there is a surprising turn inward:
It is time. It is time to pack up buckets and shovels
And shut the trunk tight even though it will face
More thieves than roadbumps, tight nonetheless
Against the cool August evening. It is time
To kiss your wives goodnight on either side
And settle to sleep while motes of dust rain down
Like unheralded parachutists storming the still shores
Of your once-restless legs. Even the Wal-Mart
Has closed for the night, even Tom Waits has decided
To head back to his hotel, even the buzz from
The freezer has quieted down for your sake.
And as the shiny glacier of ice buildup threatens
To envelop a three-year-old box of Klondike bars
Within, your dreams will visit you one at a time,
Sand through the hourglass, the cold sweat of lotion
Breaking out on your palms, the tides of sleep
Rolling the covers of nightmare and fantasy
Up over your head. What will the morning bring?

ROBERT LEBLANC lives in Pawtucket and works at the University of Rhode Island where he is completing his dissertation in English. His poetry will be appearing in a forthcoming issue of Main Street Rag, and an upcoming critical article will appear in ASEBL Journal.

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