Issue
#1

January
2009

a poem by David Blaine

Driving home through the rain after the bars closed

Tires shooshed
slinging a sustained note
below the automobile.

The sky was cloud-blocked
but the wet asphalt gleamed
beneath his headlamps.

As Bird blew be-bop
the wipers slapped
and he cranked some heat
dispelling an autumn chill.

Cigar smoke
mingled with leather
and the night just seemed to loom
out of the glistening blacktop.

The train’s whistle must have sounded
a lot like a cornet.

© David Blaine

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