Nothing Stays Put Comments

Yes, yes, yes. Her Iowa is my Tennessee, and her Manhattan is my own midwestern city. I'll come back to this poem time again (with dictionary and encyclopedia in hand. Protea of the antipodes? Alstroemerias? But how well I know her exotic supermarket (we are, indeed, in our decadence) , her cornflower on roadsides (yes! ! !) , her grandmother's garden, the corduroy of the plowed, furrowed, midwestern farmlands, those courthouse lawns, the wild plums of her childhood - oh, and yes indeed, those ubiquitous blossoming pears that line streets everywhere I walk, and in the summer will bear no fruit.