Magazine article from our research archive:

Dear Jenny.(Poem)

 
Dear Jenny, I feel I am growing smaller, 
the map on my lap is the world not the map of the world 
and the steering wheel is one of those rings that are thrown 
to the drowning to save them, 
Jenny, 
why do we need motels when we can sleep 
in parking lots, your head on my lap, or mine on yours. 
It isn't rain, the windshield wipers wipe 
clean the evening's insect swarms, they are invisible until they collide 
with the glass. 
Jenny, this is our house, the house we do not own 
and this the portrait of the man who lived 
here before, this is his spice rack and this 
the hole he worried through the wool 
blanket with his thumb, and this, Jenny, is his hunter's cap 
and his one good shoe. ...

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