Bus to Bangor
New Brunswick’s long blue shelf not far
behind, we brake for the big land that not long
ago had faith. Border Guns will see: are
we who we say we are? We’re outlaws, no song
can change that now. The old woman’s satchel holds
only trail mix – a large, clear envelope
wary tongs hoist like one might toast two souls,
a bride and groom one feels sure are doomed, no hope.
Or inspect a toxic fish. Three dark men
are taken away. I’m mulling a poem
by Bishop called “Questions of Travel” when
the Newfoundlander ruffs he wants to home;
he’ll not leave Cow Head again – in that place
trail mix is trail mix, not some federal case!