No Help for That | Jackie Clark

Racing away from painted lines,
the simple equal of beads
balance against each other.

Each can see the lumber lines.

Someone is still waiting
around for quarters and dimes
to be chucked out of windows.

I align the grove debris
and think of other things:
Orthodox gyros,
active adult homes atop retainer walls,
stacked blue tollbooth tiles;
we’ve seen movies on this highway.

I clear the over hang just fine.

I ignore the landscape arrows,
all their recommendations,
all their large, aluminum peppers.

There’s a genius growing
inside of me right now.
It bingos in the morning,
it click-clicks industrially
after sleepless nights,
after regressed ubiquity.

First just the lip balm,
then just the powder.

We’re such a short distance
from the palace
but we’ll wait
a long time anyway.