Somewhere in some kin roots with fifths,
I'll find the hollows there and follow
where the fit do not go.
A subtle wind always blows me back.
Well water black.
Spigot spitting nothing but some frustrated air.
I'd put the hollows against tomorrow's
many sicks and sorrows,
or a sinking ship with cargo
and men on deck.
Well water black
Did both my grandfather's beg like this?
Mad with little fists under thick mustaches,
lighting the only tablecloth with the last book of matches?
The blues of a proud, poor boy caught on something manic and well to do.
It's your choice: bird flock stuck in a smokestack panic,
or in little shoes you quit when they start kids pitching
with your two palsy palms and all ten digits itching.
Now on the west coast, dressed most like a little league coach,
I'm low key, old keys, but no boys to teach
on no dusty diamond. No breadcrumbs where I went.
Old muscle, slow hustle, oh god must me silent and far away
for us to hear, but nothing this way.
I'd like to think I'd take dictation
from something big and evasive
that I've yet to see the face of,
bracing. But when I'm awake,
I'm like a little twig breaking under heavy winds weight,
or a moth hole in a sweater.
I know I could do it better, but...