Cheating on Illinois

The Blue Ridge Parkway skates and slides
    through speckled light, gold coins of fire,
       diving into sunken galleons of tunnels,
          bursting with brassy fanfare into the sun.

I spiral off the Parkway like a weary hawk
    to find Asheville lounging in her hammock,
       in tie-dyed halter, denim, and beads, breaking
          the hippie heart behind my professor ribs.

She shows me the treasures of her battered pack:
    an Indian flute, three sticks of incense,
       a purple dragon rampant on a crystal ball,
          a dog-eared Coney Island of the Mind.

Good Illinois. I'll have to tell her someday.
   Despicable, I suppose, but what's to be done?

The Mid-America Poetry Review, (Winter 2007-8) VIII(3): 152.