Don McLagan
Hearth and chimneys remained/when the remote cottages succumbed/to unreachable fire and scouring salt./Stout, alone, together, they stood,/sentinels on the sandy tail of the island.
The Derby
I renounce your right to my head.
Proudly, I wore the hat in ’78 in spite
of Bucky Dent. Your brim capped
my headache when Buckner booted it
in ’86 and shaded my eyes after Grady
left Pedro on the mound in ’03. But now
I’ve thrown it off, stomped it and hung it
at the back of the rack.
Three cars, three minutes
each time, on time, just
in time, to midnight — metronome
for the separate island
releasing triptych cars which drive
twenty-five on one paved road
and less on dirt washboards
where rhythmed bumps punctuate
as fishermen, construction crews
returning shoppers buck and heave
on sand bunched like bedclothes
on a humid night when unquiet