I drove East Genesee Street to West Genesee Street
while the sun was setting––the cold winter sun
slowly withdrawing from the walls
of black snow.
I was not driving anywhere in particular, just driving––
and I remembered what Sam once said
about never having been on his way anywhere,
but simply on his way.
And I thought of a dream I’d had
in which I dreamt that I was dreaming––
in which I was also driving
past stolen goods: TVs and stereo equipment
left on the side of the expressway exit ramp
to kiss the immaterial in the night.
Once, years ago, I was suddenly lost
below a huge overcast sky and driving past rows
of anonymous houses
some still with their long leftover Christmas lights
and identical white mailboxes––
and in passing, I glimpsed
a man running up his driveway with two garbage cans
––one in each hand––
He wore a black pinstriped suit.
The garbage cans were his wings, his galvanized steel wings.