With Jack standing on the side of the Jersey turnpike,
freezing rain, frozen time spitting off the eighteen wheelers
screaming by us leaving discarded mufflers, red road kill
and always hubcaps strewn over the insane landscape
like no two alike snowflakes or the ballerinas in white,
alive in dreams where everything goes
all of it: the car parts, horseshoes, sea anemones
apricot wheels, coral reefs, secrets we dare not
speak and who do you loves.
Jack liked to pick up the gold nuggets and gemstones
that fell off the black Cadillacs that never stopped.
He’d turn them into stars or girls playing hard to get
hard to keep, playing possum, turn them into sunny
days with a path leading across fields of glass,
I mean grass like when you’re hiking in the woods
and you come to open fields of hills and dales
and there’s a stream full of Jack’s gemstones.
Then suddenly it all falls apart
and you’re back in the black rain
fallen on the side of some turnpike
dreaming of cigarettes and rides.