April 2 03

Quarters beneath a traffic overpass, all tarnished green,
on some, persistent white spots, texture of plaster--
I dropped them in bleach only to blacken them.
Once washed, some corrosion also washed off.

Discolored, they rolled through the coin-slots
of the washer-dryer, green as verdigris
on the valuables of merchant ships or busts
of the most benign of despots
or some provincial Cleopatra,
ushered into being with perfect skin-tones.

Other items under the overpass: Yoo Hoo bottles,
plastic covers for directionals on Superduties,
grills giant as the cow-catchers of trains
flying through the 19th century,
striking the wayward sheep so swiftly
their carcasses flew above the prairie
to be impaled on Western fence-posts.

Cattle looked dumb, unsure what they’d seen
beneath their large black lashes, which on humans
are associated with the Celts,
whereas the Anglo-Saxon eyelash is dwarfed
by an eyebrow as large and unruly
as a fox-tail or a cleaning brush,
thought indecorous to trim--
a sign of thought and cold command
for bankers, dons, and proconsuls.
Beneath such brow the eye sweeps away its adversaries.

No matter which brush I scrub with,
Washington refuses to appear beneath this one.
The lip and jaw of this terse hardened
yeoman farmer has been utterly oxidized,
the sweep of his look across the horizon,
his disapproval of the lost tribes of Israel
in animal skins and cowrie necklaces,
people of Abraham and people of Ham
dropped in the same deciduous valley.
How strong the trees look there.

A rubber ring around its lid brittle,
this change jar was better for grain.
The silver has inched up slightly.
In months it will brim to the top,
piled for each denomination.