We are of one mind
and too much has not been said
about all the quiet afternoons
childhood offered us,
lit gray like a cat, or blue,
and cursed with an early moon.
When father wore an apron¹
or crept like a bear, we screamed.
Nothing is so gone.
Where is his record player
or the channel that forked
a distant year toward us,
kind, slow magnet?
There was a song we shared
without your listening,
you widowed soul crawling away on your elbows.
I sing it to my child, with a full hand I
flick² its rapeseeds everywhere,
clear, and slow,
with all the sincerity³ its author indeed felt
in his ten-gallon hat
and his thin, whisky-soaked shirt.