Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

This state of things
will never do!
If the Mayor refuses
to move the impediment,
I know a consulting shaman
adept at elementals.
He will circle your house
with Indian maize
(to the delight of pigeons),
hang silver spoons
on your mantel.
Then he will pull the tail
of the Wendigo,
enraging his northern eminence
until its four crossed winds,
its burning feet of fire
converge at the pinch point,
galing down Hudson,
huffing from the piers
to your doorstep,
pounding that monolith
flat as a paving stone.
He has done this for others —
That is why,
at certain corners,
dust devils harry pedestrians
on windless days,
tornado leaves and paper scraps,
raise skirts and strip
the skins of frail umbrellas.