POEM OF THE DAY BY A.J. RATHBUN

In Ithaca

Before arriving in Ithaca, pass

the whatever river, whatevering

around the dusty credit spring

loans summer, where men off

ante meridian to relieve water

of any but the wiliest trout.

Sweat drips as simple syrup down

gawky morning chins of lost tourist,

invited visitor alike as they amble

past the poetic Wendy’s, sing

of how five gorges cater breeze

over hot May noons. 1942’s

Comprehensive Pictorial Encyclopedia

in the public bathroom on Seneca

says scenic beauty expands

out of nightingales and bees

and a picture of John Wayne.

Lunch is orange and sweet. Porches

restrain sheep, become kernels

of early Iranian cinema dialogues

for the burled tri-state area.

In Ithaca, no one calls Ithaca

the Switzerland of America.

Deer multiply into stars, stars

replace deer, but evening light,

nostalgically golden brown, is hard

for me to remember, once borders

are crossed. The Cayuga dreams

of Tioga, from a distance, and, 

as an heiress to an empty estate,

State Street woos New Jersey state

while iced Italian Soda served

under fans at Home Dairy want savoring,

if the flavor is Kiwi, the tropical

component of 4:30, here, in Ithaca,

where astronomical observations

reveal to even jaded passers-by

a street, a city, a moon, an ocean

papier-mached with glacial confetti

from a million legendary parades.


-A.J. Rathbun