I just read in North Dakota There is a mad rush underway

For the black gold hidden In the prairie’s belly.

Grapes of Wrath writ in real life. But all the rooms are taken:

Hotel rooms, motel rooms, Trailers, backseats of cars,

Tents, Wal-Mart parking lots, With a serpentine waiting list for everything.

So the Joads are forced to cling, To squat, to brace themselves against

The bone chilling wind and the coal heat In whatever silver of space the body can fit.

How much space does a body need? The heart sometimes feels like this:

Filled with syllables’ black ink but unable To find a stanza’s room to inhabit.

Perhaps it was the French Warship steaming by the city,

Seen from a height, imperious next To the coal barges, shark-gray in color

Under a cold blue sky, which Dredged up in memory today

The stoic coldness in Adrienne’s eyes As they steamed through that farewell.