Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Poem: The Aroma from Tacoma

The Aroma from Tacoma

In the dark still tick of his core,
a balance of evensong.

Licorice pull of canefire,
fields of charred stalk, clouds of black.

We love the ugly as well as
the sweet: five-year-old on an
aircraft carrier, breathing diesel.

At forty, he returns to his
only chosen town. The odor of the
paper mill takes him to tears.

Because it’s distinct.
Because it means something:
the failures are behind you,
it’s time to start over.

Challenger International

From the collection Fields of Satchmo

Photo by MJV

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