Friday, January 7, 2011
Lightning struck the tree--
Mama blamed me,
But she couldn't find my trialsome ass
Cos one block of blackened wood looks much like the next.
So, I slipped the strike in my pocket
And took up smoking,
Kissed the girl next door--
She was older,
Invited me in,
Shut the door,
And I grew up like a gypsy in her jewelry box--
Hers and a dozen others more.
Years later, another light came out of Heaven,
And I sobered up--
Quit cursing during grace,
Or wearing fishnets on the church steps;
Tried the straight and narrow ways
For a while,
Now I live in a bower made of books;
I whisk words with the places I've been and haven't been--
I spend my days out on the porch,
And after dark, I'm in.
I kiss my finger when I've cut it on a page-edge;
My dog sticks close to home.
The old strike is still there,
Kept between my writing chair
And the window where I watch the dandelion seeds
And river reeds.
My remaining life lies just beyond,
It might be wise or unwise,
But what it so certainly is,