IMPROVISATION #81
AT BUZZARDS BAY

Turning green
at Buzzards Bay
there's a stop
moving at red
for everyone else,
with an objective look
along the Cape Cod
river beds
as sunshine floods
its liquid glare
blinding dizzy traffic
from taxis which part
even at a dead end
as two smart cars collide
amid heated chatter
as dawn pins
its latest scattered casualty
in a briefing reaction
to its enigmatic fatality
for the five O'clock news
my faint heart backpedals
by abandoned landscapes
in the back seat of my car
and near my inner mirror
under blankets that I draw
from my geometric
color field art
gives me renewed satisfaction
entering my paintings
in a summer competition
as an amateur
of the underground war
as artistic recognition
I'm left alone to relax
doing a concrete poem
sounding my alto sax
in a disclosed space
away from city rage
of surrounding trade
with my correspondence
to ageless students
of another language
as a lone beachcomber
named Dave from Texas
without soap
and bandages for a cut
and insect bites
from his car accident
and a couple of fights
directed from the last lane
promises me a jam session
as he plays chops
when notices my sax
and with stolen moments
of reconciliation
accepts my invitation
for brunch
tells me I'm a poet
as his hunch
we watch soccer practice
our hour is already buried
searching for sea nymphs
from the river beds
submerged in high tide
along the deserted beach
as a mermaid waves
to reach over to us
from a hidden Nereid.