March’s balanced sun,
and over a dashboard map
a bald orchard freckling white,
a subtle scent resuming
the countryside contours,
a windborne whiff of apple,
inebriates the tanked-
up Maverick tracing the idling
asphalt which tethers city
to city, a fixed intent
bewildering through this country
of white scent, an everywhere
to which his driven brain’s
alacritous abandon
assents, as morning’s drudge
befuddled amid a freedom
of greening lawns, sky new-blue
(having just quit his job)
loses himself in choice:
wishes scatter like pollen,
every mood renews.
