“Bombed by the constitution,” says a colleague
at a department meeting. I write it down.
A student talks about farm tools, and I imagine
the title, “Why I Love My Shovel.”
I misread the ad for a new book of fiction, see
“Life on the Moon” and write.
The Weather Channel churns up storms, sun,
tsunamis, snow, sprinkles, showers—
I am transported to the sky, where my vision
changes. As my beautician streaks
my hair, the smell reminds me of Belpre, Ohio’s
factories, like the scent of cooked
cauliflower almost burning, and the oddness
of those plants at night, all lit up,
cities unto themselves, but practically deserted,
gated, guarded, secreted away,
and how, driving by, knowing I was not allowed
inside, I wanted nothing more than to sneak in,
break the rules, hold my nose against the stench
and discover the reason
for making that part of darkness in southeastern
Ohio so bright and full of contradiction.