When they opened my lungs
There was no cancer
Just fungus encapsulated in flesh
Making bad X-rays but
Doing no harm

Floating on moonlight
The Parkway pitches
Like a canoe in shoals
If the Ford had a mane

Of course it’s trite
On this clear day
With a light breeze
Bluebirds fly left to right
Across the road
To the pasture fence
Then South

Eight miles away
On tracks at the foot of Murray’s Knob
Diesels pulling empty gondolas north for coal
Blare air horns at every grade crossing and driveway
Between Magodee and the county line