Circuit Rider



The radar pitch of the ice cream truck

always rings disappointed—mawk


eighth-note counterpoint rising,

rising electric and sugar-songed,


as noble as “Turkey in the Straw”

is able to sound. A slow torpedo


exploding through the gray pigeon

afternoon, warring certain joy upon


perchance suburbia, it passes, tune

detuning, but will come round again.


Its mad-saint driver never makes money,

but the children run, and the children grin.

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