ON THE EDGE IN ST. LOUIS
The airport motel rattles like rain. Hot Missouri eases through the hole The air conditioner ought to fill. Whisky flows. Over Kansas hangs a twisted slice of moon. There, here, and in Iowa, it is easy now To understand why a man kills for no good Reason. How much corn, how many acres Of plowed and unplowed fields can any living Thing abide? And for how long? Belly up, the road turns and bends back On itself. Through the black Midwestern Night the lights of a distant truck bounce Across the sea of wheat. I squint myself Into another time; on the ridges of squared Windcut bluffs stand, poised, miles of Indians. Being here, I know why they died For Montana, Dakota, Wyoming. The plane turns to me; the truck of dreams Freezes on the slope. Jet-roar burns the air Like dry ice. I doze, wake, doze, tossing In the heat that nightfall cannot soothe. Stephen Gardner, Taking the Switchback Dr. Gardner was my English professor in college. Beloved by many, he had a gift not only for writing, but also for teaching. My favorite part of the day was attending his class to hear his low, gentle voice reciting the days reading, commanding attention by breathing life into words that permeated the room, captured our focus and brought us together in conversation and shared intrigue. He is missed.