The Temperature on Mercury
During the course of a day here on Mercury
temperature fluctuates between terrible extremes
from nights of -320°F—where even out of the wind
every night is the coldest night of the year to days
of 930°F—where even in the shade it’s hot
and here on a planet totally devoid of even trace amounts
of Fresca—930° can sometimes seem like 940°
But keep in mind those twenty minutes in the morning
and again those twenty minutes of late afternoon when
between these terrible extremes of temperature
it’s really not so bad out—consider that twice a day
here on Mercury there’s opportunity for a short stroll
or maybe a coffee—a hot beverage enjoyed in the glow
of a rising sun
perhaps a cold beverage quietly sipped
between the lengthening shadows—just you and I
We’ve always had these handful of minutes
here on Mercury
tucked between pan-seared day and freezer-burned night
these windows of opportunity offered us—you and I
here on Mercury
always entrusting within these twenty or so minutes
twice a day—everything
Poetry in the Cars
Hunched and squirming in their cars
everybody is muttering poetry to themselves
That’s what I tell my daughter after sitting in traffic
for 45 minutes outside Braintree or Quincy or somewhere
But Dad—she says from her plaid Mary Oliver booster seat
—all their poetry seems really angry—and so I explain
that sometimes poetry is angry poetry—sometimes
poetry scowls and turns its back on rainbows
sometimes poetry just wants to slap the horn—sometimes
poetry crawls like a dirge
The guy with the Vermont plates trying to cut me off
is spewing Bukowski
Some Xfinity van is Ginsberging the best minds
of his generation right on my ass
A middle finger extended from my driver side window
has Emily Dickinson all over it
The lady driving the Forester in front of us—
thinning gray hair barely visible above her seat
I can tell from the breath on her windshield
she’s mumbling a haiku—
still against my gaze
the empty lane before me
fills with swerving cars
Oh my God—are you going to Go or What—lady?
and my daughter asks—What poem are you reciting, Dad?
It’s Whitman
“Are You Going To Go Or What, Lady” by Walt Whitman
What’s it about? she asks when I think I’m off the hook
And so I tell her—I tell her it’s about movement
it’s about snaking the s-curves the way we snaked
out of Eden on that first morning commute
it’s about the momentum that propels us forward
powered by gasoline and the fear of being left behind
it’s about manifest destiny outside Braintree or Quincy
or somewhere at about 15 mph
it’s about how when that strand of brake lights cuts
the haze—when the dawn strikes cold hard chrome
when the shimmer and bend of a guardrail is the only
moral compass left to you, child—that’s poetry
that’s what it’s about
