Life Story

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,

Crocodile.



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,

Is exquisitely,

Deliciously,

My own.

_________