TAKING TURNS WITH
THE HIGH WINDS
Knuckles and onions, mushrooms and clouds
Like the night sky, black velvet, some girl named
Leeta Ford, singing about booze. It's half-memory
stuff, in a quiet sense of being, My father, and his
silly cloth handkerchiefs - all that crud just
stuffed back into his pocket, for a re-use later.
At least he never called me a snot. Look on
the bright side, I suppose.
Now it's much later and he's not here. Neither
am I either - having long ago rounded that
silent bend into the crazier land of the self.
Self-consumed. Mad, stupid dawdler who
writes no end. Squirming over grammar
while the sweet girl chuckles - that one
I know, of gold.
I can't say how this happens or what anything
even means. It jut comes out automatic - like
how knuckles here suddenly rhymes with
chuckles, which just turns up 40 words later.
Who's working this panel-board anyway,
and who's controlling this all?
Out on her lawn that lady is brushing a carpet.
What an odd task that may be? It's like colonial
days all over again - some stern Puritan lady
pushing a straw broom over the weave and
connection of her porch full of rules.