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American Music
                     For Bob Bauer


A jazz musician too,
the great neglected genius
of the guitar, Danny Gatton,
before he shot himself
was happiest fixing cars.
You handed him a wrench
and grunting soulfully,
laughing, Danny swore,
riffing on a thing 
that might not work. Bob,
to love him was to savor
a melody unresolved.

             Previously appeared in Northwind.

Driving into a Telephone Pole in the Pentagon Parking Lot


Two a.m., 
blind with drink.
This was in between wars. 

Saluting, hubris 
reared its head,
then banged mine.





Why the Widower Comes to the Coffee Shop Early Each Morning


Maybe he likes the coffee.
Maybe he just can't sleep.
Maybe the stillness and the dusty 
sunlight bring to mind
a bus station in Kansas, 
another place to wait,
where a voice straight out of the Wizard of Oz 
kindly croaks, "Son, 
are you leaving home
or are you coming home?"
The boy, who had been sleeping, 
dreaming, doesn’t know.

                         Previously appeared in Bluestem.



Laughing with a Friend about our Outlaw Past


But the tale of Dave Revard 
and his not-quite moustache,
his feathered hair 
and corduroy jacket,
the cops in Mississippi
who shot him dead, 
the marijuana 
exploits, the tequila 
and the skid marks is,
judging from the hushing
of our tone, almost
a trigger all its own
for two men with divorces,
child support and parents
who will soon stop breathing. 
We won't see it coming.
Quietly, we slide 
the gun back into the drawer.

             Previously appeared in Monongahela Review.