Mercury Park
By: Thomas McDade
If I am dreamed but once
I have access to memories.
I slip through
delicate seams,
make myself handsome
forget this lifetime
of cuteness.
I fell from the castle
and lived
when Sinatra still knew
all the lyrics
to "Funny Valentine."
I drank Thunderbird
with a madman
sporting razor hooks
for hands.
The bikers fear him!
I hotwire a Merc
primered
lowered
louvered
4 on the floor
skirts
hellfire decals everywhere
hubcaps silver moons
a plaque dangling
off the rear tag
inscribed
"LOVE DON'T CARE"
that sparks the road
when the clutch goes pop!
There is a suicide knob
where a beautiful woman lives.
The thought of her
launches duck-tailed knights
into frenzied dances
on high voltage wires.
Suddenly she appears
in a holy light
filtered through lenses
of Budweiser glass.
She is a saint
lighting candles
on the hood
with spaghetti sticks
for the IRA dead,
a runt calico kitten
hisses from her shoulder.
We ride to Twila's
trendy tattoo salon.
Bells of Ireland
drawn on our necks.
She says she cares
and grips my arm
strong as Jack Daniels.
Sparks trail the Merc
like fireflies or passion
reminders
of beaches, graveyard grass.
And wouldn't the Druids book
us passage on a hot air balloon
across the Irish Sea?
Take us to a castle
where her blood
will find good pace
and if there is no chair
or bed
the stone floor will soften
like the headstones of soldiers
and writers under prayer.
I stare into her eyes
as if they were crystal
hanging from the rear view
in a New Age van
and incense seeps through
the floorboards like an
aroma of Kent cigarette.
The radio crooner sings
of a dame,
a tall drink of Ballantine
slick as Tru-Ade Grape.
Then Father Knickerbocker interrupts
with a sermon
says it's okay
for cripples to ride
boxcars and play harmonicas
to the wind blowing
through their braces like hymns.
He adds that all distillery profits
should benefit the homeless.
Hooker shows up
to carve our initials
in a tree spelling
"In dreams find memory."
He claims he can croon
"Valentine" straight through
prosthesis for a microphone,
but the melody
would ring rather false
with classic beauty around.
He pulls a Polaroid
from under a passing swan's wing.
Snapping her picture
a hundred times,
she does not protest
but allows just profile.
I watch her develop
for hours
silent as a hex bolt
as she became each time
shiny and crispy.
We feed the loons
trail mix and bagels
until she disappears.
The photos are nothing
but unpublished poems
with names of Triple Crown
winners for titles.
My belles of Ireland
cause rashes.
The Merc turns into a picnic
table where the madman
crosses his metallics
and she returns
in a silver sedan.
Surely what's spoken
in tongues
through a Buick window
is grand –
goes without saying.
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