LDL | R.A. Pavoldi
Under sleep the storm sewers are running,
beneath the breast the sump pumps,
purple asteroids circuiting dark hoses
barreling down back roads
roadkill eyeing from the shoulder,
the unmarked corners known by heart,
culverts sing hollow songs
rush moonlight into the holler,
corroded pocks collecting deposits,
capillary cricks, cracked windshield
coyote’s Catherine wheel
pin wheeling in the night sky.
Conduits carry starlight
midnight runoff into the river, sludge
catching on rivets, clumping in corrugations,
scaled water pipes narrowing
behind walls in a country house
stately on the cover of a magazine,
failing septic, leach pit, cesspools
caked under tended gardens.
Lying in bed after a late dinner
listening to the red fist in charge
pounding at the head of the table, drifting
to sleep, lulled by the measured thuds
deaf to triglycerides, low density
lipoproteins hurrying through the night
Lilliputians tying Gulliver
anesthetized by steak and whiskey,
it’s not death, but the junkyard, bone yard,
the burning canoes, the burning
garbage dumps of ancient Gehenna
I fear, walking in the glow without you.
R.A. Pavoldi is self-trained and credits the Napolitano American dialect and school of hard knocks for his voices. He’s grateful to have published in The Hudson Review, North American Review, FIELD, Cold Mountain Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Crab Orchard Review, Hanging Loose, Tar River Poetry, Ars Medica (twice), Italian Americana, Margie: The American Journal of Poetry, Viewless Wings podcast, Sky Island Journal, Atlanta Review, Slipstream, I-70 Review, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Subnivean and others.