Bucket of Souls
On five miles out of Decatur
a grey building, dog on the side,
red letters on a plastic awning
and in the yard bucket of souls.
You get on board, paid at the counter,
the driver's a gold ball in the East,
sometimes the driver's a white disk
between grey clouds, sometimes the souls are diseased.
All the way over, the dog's barking—
could be one side of Missoula
to the gulph of Chi, could be
from barking water, till all the mists of soul be gone.
Sometimes it just over a little water
sometimes the moon still in the sky
sometimes the tin can rattle like a cocktail shaker
and all the souls come out the other end dry.
Moving at night through the great horizon
all you can hear is one long—low groans,
and babies, old men with their prayerbaskets;
young men throw stones from the dirt at the bucket of souls.
Found In Volume 26, No. 01
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