Yankee Doodle

wishes he was in Dixie on the old cider barrel ride.
From up there he could watch the slow curl
like shavings from a butter bucket.
He imagines kudzu vines, a wave
in slow motion, a tidal flank
the south is re-surrendering to - drowned
bodies of the Merrimack rising in his dream.
Munching on a corn. Tuscaloosa. Ivory bones
in her corset and charms from an indian mound.
He cheers like he just took best blue at the fair,
knuckle ball scattering leaded milk bottles,
red mud scuffed up under his toes to fit that worm
on the hook and be off to Dixieland, whistling.

1985 John Goss