Spigot

Dawn is breaking
As I drive across the
Golden Gate Bridge first
A dim light to the east across
The black waters of the Bay
Then red orange yellow to
Light blue spread across
The sky as I approach
The bridge crossing,
To the west rolling
Dark waters of
The Pacific
Still dark
Endless
Waves.
Pandora
Is the past
But she has
Turned on the
Spigot of poems
After thirty years
Of silence since my
Poems on the Nuclear
Winter wrote themselves,
Now at the end of 2017 she
Has turned on the spigot and
The poems flow out through me
But almost by themselves as if
I am only a transcriber not a
Writer of poems, all this is
Above my mind as I try to
Stay on the bridge not in
The Bay then into San
Francisco where for a
Few more minutes
The streets are
Not yet grid
Locked in
Honking
Cars
The roads
Too complex
To navigate as
I find myself driving
Alone on a five-lane street
Just noticing the line of five
Cars and trucks coming at me,
I am on a one-way boulevard
Going the wrong way into
Traffic so I duck down a
Side street eventually
To find the car return
By the airport then
Airborne east to
I do not know
What but in
To bright
Daylight
Drippy
Spigot
And all.