Standing on the edge
of his neighbor’s cattled yard,
Reza Kholoff
has made the decision
to purchase a jacket. Soon,
when the day breaks
down in beat
high yellow, he will leave his litter,
head into town,
and retrieve the first full cover
the first salesman shows
him, without first looking
at the price. The cloth set
on body must hold
together, but there is little
other mandate.
On the frontage gravel road
pulling long behind his pasture,
the sister of an old school-
mate drives past,
kicking rocks back at the
bovine, tapping her palm
against the door panel
to the beat of left music.
With the windows down,
the cab of the pick-up must
be incredibly dusty. Her
head is sewn against the
seat rest. She is not coughing.
Left limp
wrist held over
the steering yoke,
Reza birds his thumb
against the shift
column, allowing
the right lower digits
to kibble for a
station. Between commercials,
there is pitched rent
of female melisma running
into failed signal
as he bows the leg
of a cross bridge. School
buses pass
single file nearer the shoulder,
making way, Reza imagines,
to a toothbrush
factory in the district
so the kids
can watch hot plastic
fastened to cut bristles
before packaging. A boy in
the last bus is making
faces and hand gestures
through the clear out
emergency exit but
his classmates aren’t
watching. The lanes around them
fold 200 yards before a set of train
tracks laying west
and east as an underused
option. When the procession
slows, the doors of the
first bus open
into open growth. Song castles split
latched gates inside the carriage. This will
happen two more times.
Shocks don’t stop
the rumble of axels
and motor-fill as
Reza crosses the
crossing. Having
allowed more space
between himself
and the busses that
passed him, the sounds
of rubber, of
pulled com-press
lowed above laid asphalt,
teakettle through
the door gaps and gutter-
buck the cabin space to which
the children are no longer
facing. From the air
letting in the vents,
the weather appears
to have stayed considerate.
This has happened
before: warmer days
cut between the snowfall;
screens set back in place
of storm panes, left facing
painted wood for seven
more
weeks. The tricks
small animals do aren’t really
that impressive. Reza is
sitting. Shaking. Playing
with the skin under
his index finger knowing
he needs a coat. There is
a turning lane ahead that has
only recently been painted.
A man in the shoulder.
Chasing.
A man in chase of two loose horses is wishing he’d fixed his gate. He is nervous, knees chest-high as he makes through the stalk-crush, holding his dungarees at the thigh, keeping the hemline out from under his work boots. Because the road weeds wide around his land, the passing reflection of Reza’s Nissan sets-flat an allowance of wreck-headed tree fall. Through the back right window, Reza can see the Hackneys eating, shoulders bedded in the sheets of their own skin, knowing they’ve upset their owner. From the withers, the horses are 13, maybe 16 hands against the north. From the car seat, the roads around continue; land spent out in the frame of molded glass and defrost lines; flat trunk, long stage, farmer enters with harness.
Nearing the fruit
of a bloom-metal city,
a police officer has stopped
to help a small lady
up jack her Taurus. He
is black, laid under, eyes
focused on the lift placement
so as not to loose
the rocker panel, sweating
through his Kevlar
gun belt just
hugging off
the road. To passers by, the woman
is embarrassed
or nervous
or late to a movie
she hadn’t ever cared
to see. Because they are
studied on the right
shoulder, drivers are expected
to show courtesy by drifting
more defiantly
into another lane, no
outs available. The cruiser’s
lights are not rolling but
something kings the back
left window as Reza checks his
spots, well timing the steering
wheel. In the ditches, men
with pokes and trash
bags reflect
the wild, wearing DOT vests
and visors. If he looked
into the right side
mirror, it would seem
the pressed car was changing
the officer. On this side,
however, the cattails look planted,
hailed beige in long
mowed lake. One
hundred yards from now
Reza will decide which lane to
stay in. One hundred yards
after that, he’ll still be
out of luck.
Turning low
the volume
of his Radio,
Reza steers down
the knob with
his right thumb,
and moves his hand
back to his thigh.
Focused now on avoiding
congestion, he has held
so long in the left
lane that there is strong possibility
he will not make the change
in time enough to enter
the store’s parking entrance
three blocks away. Between
his current location
and the business he is trying
to do business with,
there is a traffic light
at every intersection. The poor
planning of this design was said
to keep a flow of product,
but over the years the timing
has fallen off. Many people
find themselves every block
moving only small measure
before being signaled to rest
again. Reza is stopped. He needs to
get over
within the next few seconds and he knows
the Explorer on his left
is trying its best
to let that happen. At the cross streets
of King and Addison Avenue,
Reza rolls down his window
and lets the smoke from the Irish
bar on his right slip
into his nostrils.
When the light turns green, the
Explorer puts on its left directional,
stalling progress long enough
for Reza’s Nissan to cut
its losses. After another light,
Reza puts on a directional
of his own. There are no cars in
the Farm and Fleet’s lot; the employees are waiting
outside on smoke breaks and there is no
suggestion of fire sale. Putting the car
in park, the engine ticks low like lost men
looking for their wives. Through the reflection of
show windows, the mannequins seem
dressed in his windshield.
Storm cuffs and shot
product information feel out
to wasted aisles like pushed
pavement at strip
malls throwing up to slow
for children. The day
has been found
tired; shadows at
the store entrance
lean longer than expected
while a man in tough
jeans nearing the rested garments
is heard with his supervisor
from an Earth Moving
company telling high
his plans for dinner. Reza’s plan
is dining. He is standing,
watered at the forehead,
thumbing size rings
over pony racks
hoping somehow there’s an
order. From his left,
Reza feels the struggle
not to want to be alone. A woman
with short hair and belly
stuffing steps into his
arena, tapping lookly at
her thigh.
There are others in the back if you can’t find your want.
I am too skinny.
We could always measure.
It won’t send weight.
Rest now.
Reza nods, drops
his right foot one step
nearer his attendant and about
faces his back to
the foreground. The drill
is simple: stand cut,
span, cock elbow mid swing
to square your body’s
reading, wait. Reza feels the tape of numbers
start at the center
of his back, between the shoulder
blades, and follow his arm track
to the wrist. Said lady
pulls three coats to
a clearing, one full away
from hanger.
Do you like to fit a sweatshirt?
It’s almost summer.
This is a good place to start.
I’ll take it.
Stepping back
nearer the car, light
cloud cover moves
low around the setting,
laying wide
the resin of horizon. Diners
alive in the city. Traffic
along the Avenue has
called back to one
lane, and Reza has opened
his options: key,
fire, hummm. …ebenon
again today as Israeli officials
insists she has a right
to defend herself. Shhhh. Reza
shuffles his wrist against the
tour of the radio,
piles down the voice’s
reach out. He checks
his mirrors. Straights
his hand along the shoulder
curve of the front passenger
chair, and reaches across
his person to down shift
his fevered recession. It is quiet
in the cab and the buildings
stay still. As he rolls away
his sleeve length, Reza huddles
his head on the window. Colors
change in metal boxes
strung the width of lonely
service. Back now
to sitting in wait; birds resting
on the phone lines; phone lines resting
in the bury of bone black birds.
Left limp
wrist held over
the steering yoke,
Reza birds his thumb
against the shift
column and digs
at the plastic cap. Between commercials,
there is music again
on the radio; raised rent;
mamma I’m low; someone’s
coming up the driveway quick
get in the closet. Running
into failed signal as he lifts
back the leg of a cross
bridge, Reza sees flies
fire light-dark
along his either. The sea
of static swells. Leads eyes
to shelled clusters of
tracheal end cells
pulling through
bean fields while the road
breaks way
from the city. Gray lanes around him
splay 200 yards wide
after a set of train tracks
netted east
and west down plays
his carried cage. Reza eyes again
the longing ahead. Engages
the headlamps. Lets off
the pedal and
breaks he rolls the basin.
One light waiting
in a room where
someone’s left him
dinner reads hot
the shot night of wide
open. There is nothing else
to do now but guide
the Nissan to bed
pan. To shift the shift
column low, pull back
the long brake
playing straight the straight
consol, and ease
the door out/back. Back
on his ground Reza feels
for his buckle, his zipper,
his knees. Pants come on
to the lid of his
engine; shirt it
falls to the brush. Reza reaches
back. It is cold
when he touches again
the handle but his coat
is supposed to be warm. Light
outs the framed shadow
of house on land. Swallows
the body flat. No music. Reza listens
his wheeze in the night. Bowls
arms though new cover. Walks singing
his feet to the earth.