Mist lingers on the surface <br />of stagnant tea-brown water. <br />The flat bridge spans a mile, <br />a sea of spatterdocks. <br /> <br />Tangled stalks of cattails <br />and swamp grass reach up towards <br />the underside of the deck, <br />the chalcedony of cloud. <br /> <br />My father’s at the wheel <br />of his coffin Cadillac, <br />following a wayward crow <br />into the depths of autumn. <br /> <br />His headlights gaze into <br />the Nietzschean abyss. <br />And then the same abyss <br />gazes back into us. <br /> <br />Rear tail-fins cut through <br />the snapping-turtle air, <br />past the scarlet oaks <br />and shagbark hickories. <br /> <br />Smoke from his cigar <br />drifts out his cracked window, <br />heavenward, as we head <br />towards the exit at Mercer. <br /> <br />We turn in the direction <br />of Farrell, Sharon, Youngstown, <br />and pass the furnaces <br />of purgatory and hell.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crossing-geneva-marsh/
