Philip Byron Oakes
Gray's Shawl

A teamster's melancholia steering the truck
to sobriety, in the contraflow lane that gives
the grid its whiz. Wait a minute's life. The
acid rain meeting its match, in Mamie's
potatoes au gratin; the palm trees blinking
in their pose for paradise. Aneurysms in
traffic spilling truth serum into café au
laits: the toreador wielding a holy grail,
won in a raffle to end the plague of
shallow waters lapping at the feet
of better men than that. Anointed takes a
powder in the fifth, to resolve a debt to
mystery. Sadness, you know the rest.