Debra Kaufman


The road to hell
is curvy, she’d said,
some wild joke.

He carves
miniature watchdogs
in the breezeway
these dry nights
after having smoked
the last of her Luckies.

The morning sun
grills him,
bakes the granite
marker in the field.

How robust
her impatiens
still. Her red
sports car blazes;
her nightgown,
silken falderal,
dances on the line.





All the cars are full.
No one is moving:
talk talk. Let them wait,
says the queen.

Some leave and more get on. 
I face the back window:
This has the most beautiful
resonance for me
pastel fields, waterfalls, mountains.

I went mad, someone says,
while the others assembled——
pretentious people, rich.

A huge man’s voice narrates
scenery, one scene after,
being stunning visually.

Those I came with have disappeared—
to smoke in the smoking car,
dine in the diner?
Others rush about—
musical chairs.

Who is this we,
and why are we here?
Some kind of excursion.

O window, o scenery,
what we see! Someone
has her own personal
America the Beautiful
experience, but we are all
running backwards,
I know. The panic!

Then the beauty hits.