Gravel Underfoot

When you said that you were leaving,
keys in your hand, fingering there
the chains and cheap plastic tokens you had
accumulated over the years in tourist traps,
"Come visit Tahiti, fun in the sun
(and the native population enslaved in the
service industry)" --

the metal clinked together, making little noises
as your eyelashes caught a drop of rain
and others found their way into your matted hair
and down to the base of your chin
where they would linger and fall --

I didn't believe that you really wanted to go
but rather you felt something pulling in your belly
like a fish caught on a metal hook.
Tahiti, Niagra Falls, Yellowstone, Chicago
all jingling together

as your red tailights got
smaller and smaller
down the road.



(c) Kate Finneran 2004





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