Saturday, March 22, 2014

Poem: Instructions


Find an acorn.
Slip it into the pocket of a
coat you never wear.
Six months from now,
late-night run to a convenience
store, rediscover it,
hard kernel of oakbirth.

We live on simple threads:
song to learn, present to buy,
text message from a possible possible,
dollop of sour cream.

Sage, cumin, spray of basil,
frontyard rosemary, aroma of
jazzify, alchemy of punctuate,
cavalry of dishtowels to
wipe up the sorry.

Feathergreen cypress.
Wobbling wavetop.
Falling in a smithereen.

First sip of an ice cold beer after
sweating on some rich guy’s deck.
First step home after
ten hours in a cubicle.
Hoping the deck guy hasn’t screwed it up.
Hoping the rich guy doesn’t stiff you.
Wheat-colored planks, fields of oakbirth.
The painter still at it, fussing the smallnesses.
Two beers in the fridge.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV

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