on the way

On an uncertain quest,
caught in the back eddies of
time and place, like a
Christmas poinsettia dropping
a brown leaf in June, like
black mould sketching a
fresco on the bathroom ceiling,
there’s a soreness in the
soul of my foot.

“A half million people have gone
by this booth,” the Mississippian said.
People in Washington think we’re
ignorant. And half of them come up
and ask, “What’s that?”
“A turkey call,” I say.
“What’s it do?”
“Call turkeys.”

Circling high, where
ends of hot dogs and
kernels of popcorn
look like pebbles,
an incomprehensible
message bound to
its leg, a homing
pigeon flaps off
to a knurled wooden roost.