My Emily Dickinson


This morning I stepped outside
and found Emily Dickinson sitting in my truck.
2007, stick shift, six cylinder, single cab.

She appeared to be reading
The Complete Poems of Hart Crane,
which I always keep under the seat.

I climbed into the bed of the truck
as quietly as I could
and she did not notice me.

She had the book cracked open to The River,
spent a long time reading it
and re-reading it.

Next, she read The Dance
over and over again.
Finally, she put the book down,

opened the door ( I lay down
so she wouldn’t see me).
She walked to the neighbor’s car,

finding no books there,
she went from driveway to driveway,
shoulders hunched, curly hair limp against the breeze.

I went back inside the house,
grabbed her book of complete poems
and hung it on the rear view mirror,

drove all around the neighborhood,
drove all around town, hood open, doors open,
honked the horn all the while and drove home empty-handed.