Poems for My Uncle Bill
The Fruit of Song
Many have seen Bill at dusk
Escape unfettered into the pines:
His roar shakes the Moon,
His footprints are foxholes.
Dogs assail him, but he always escapes.
Only the fruit of song draws him near.
To the Uncle
His carpentry fine, his shooting skills unmatched:
A man of the parlor whose hijinx are hatched
At the card table his face is a plate without food--
A mask without meaning, motive, or mood.
In the fields he stalks, his movements are blunt
As he sweeps up another prize from his hunt.
Bill’s dogs stand ready for his call of command,
Prepared to sprint across the length of his land.
On the roads he is crucial, his hopes are annoyed
He harshly skips across tracks of Pink Floyd.
Perhaps too much power is lost in the wheels
His gas pedal is mashed, and the engine reels--
Then Bill is away, he’s haunting the sky;
The clouds from his cigarette, he waves goodbye.
Bill’s Game
The black K is laid
Somewhere a child cries out
He sweeps up the coins