Visibility (at Bonnie Lee's)

This restaurant was once a service station.
We're in the left bay and the dialogue
was different then. No hand clean. Before that
it was probably a farm, the sun laying
across the land like a huge, bright bandage.
Rows of soil cracked like the sky
on summer afternoons. Harvests leaned
against the leaves waiting for the bond
of color to weaken their grip.

Everything used to be a farm
Even this marriage. Dissolved. The words
we use now are so cluttered with fact
we must've been in love. Nothing's left.
If we dug deep enough we'd find
an oil pit or a rusted air line.
If we sat here long enough
we could watch the smiles disappear
and a chef appear wiping his hands
on a dirty cloth. We finally agree—

everything was probably once a farm.
At the end of a dirt road. A screen door
banging back and forth while two
attic windows darkened in dust.
Eventually the children would make
a seesaw a bridge to get to the other
side of a small creek, the next county.
You could hear the interstate there.
Pick out the repairs like planets
on a cold, dark night. Listen
to distance travel the same speed
we do.
-- George Bishop, 2008