Mud
Having been young more than once
Nobody wants to grow old
Least of all me,
I would like to savor my childhood
In late recognition of that gauche position
Opposition to my outward appearance
Silent in the face of furious catastrophe
Casual stakes at a game of dice in
Vetted tales of turbulence within the hollow
Illegal single room occupancy of my mind…
There is no heat in the winter and no cool
Water will not flow through pipes choked
With lead, rust, and about a dozen other
Toxins which wait to be discovered
Neatly deposited deep within my body ready for recycling
The cellar floor made down of damp clay-like dirt
Which when the washing machine overflows
Or stinging deluges from up north fall in barrels
Or when high tide creeps over our sea wall…
I sink down to my hips without a sound that sucks
Like Mud-cats, bottom feeding at Willow Brook Pond
My father drunk asleep with the car door open
A can of Bud still in his hand
I fish with the corn kernels and Pillsbury dough
Of our quality Saturday morning
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