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A Short History of Smith
by Taylor Graham
Breakfast: his face considers
the frightful cans and rattling empty boxes
of serial meals. Over the table of every
kitchen, so much pulp chewed
between tooth and tongue,
and swallowed.
An infinite progression toward lunch,
hunched like a question mark
as he climbs aboard: the school bus, car-
pool minivan, the 747. And all
the while he’s dreaming what will never
arrive in time for dinner: four horses
under the moon, all unshod, white.
And all the while, somewhere
prairies shine with buttercups and
muses. A mountain pond lies so thick
with lilies, its outlet flows no faster
than words that multiply
themselves in sleep.
As he departs this evening
the moon slips
pitifully bare down the long
switchbacks of sky.
A crescent of pure white
cannot be held in peace.
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