The poet told me she took a train through
my state & that Connecticut was beautiful.
She told me she loved the Cross on the hill
over Bridgeport & I told her that she meant
Waterbury, but she said it didn’t matter,
it had to be the sound of Bridgeport, which
was a real crock. Hell, if Bridgeport has to
put up with being Bridgeport why should
we pretend it has crosses over it on hills
that don’t exist? This is the city where they
built a new bridge & immediately a tanker
crashed into it. This is your traffic jam on
I-95 at midnight with working-lights over
workers rebuilding what they just built.
This is a Connecticut city worse off than
Hartford & Hartford is Hartford. Go find
a farm where you can paint your paintings
of barns. Go win fifty bucks at Foxwoods.
Go to Litchfield & stop by my uncle’s
tire-shop, he won’t be there, you’ll see,
like the woman who pulled up the day
of his funeral & found my cousin saying
I’m sorry but Bob passed, & maybe you too
will say Well where am I going to get my
tire fixed. The leaves turn a little later here
than Vermont but you should take a look
out your window at the trees on your way
to Boston or New York either way I know
if you’re coming here you must be going
there. This is the State where the less ambitious
settlers stopped & most of the little towns
stayed adorable but if you’re coming to see
where the Puerto Ricans landed don’t expect
a tour. The girl from Long Island in the tight
black pants told me I was wrong when I said
Connecticut was part of New England. You’re
tri-state she said like Jersey over & over
ignoring the look I was giving & a winter that’s
more than a little Puritan so finally I had to say
Listen lady, I know where the fuck I’m from.