a buick hubcap topped the pile
of junk from my grandpa's barn;
a star sitting in reign over all.

he'd fumble with fly rods; baits; lures.
and call it a day after explaining how
the 55 buick became pock-marked by kids.

Papa Morgan would explain each ding
as though his manhood were questioned,
standing staunch against any grins.

now, though, he lines up fuzzy childhood dream-clouds,
blows them, floating away over his grass-carpet coat;
waiting on Mama Morgan, the candle flame breathes.

01/14/2008

Posted on 01/14/2008
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