(Swans - August 12, 2013)
The middle-aged couple sat in the car.
The windows were up, it was a cold day.
It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.
The car was parked in front of the café
by the tree, you couldn't open the door.
The man in the driver's seat was balding.
The woman beside him had on glasses.
They sat rigidly, staring straight ahead.
They sat as though they were baked in a crust.
The backseat was filled with packing boxes.
The woman began fiddling with a map;
it had all the creases, like Saran Wrap,
the fragile sense of tearability;
she was spreading it out like a road map—
only there were no directions on it,
no place names, no scale, just the blank sections
which she studied in the passenger seat.
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About the Author
David Francis has produced three albums of songs, one of poems, ALWAYS/FAR, a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and the film Village Folksinger. His poems and stories have appeared in a number of US and UK magazines. His Web site is http://davidfrancismusic.com. He lives in New York City. (back)