Old Hobo, see – h-hand shakes, strokes pigeons
splayed across h-hum-array of keyed-up shades.
As if that bent-rottenèd rote-durn fence had
speared one palm, a glancing blow (sidewinder’s
bronze, or copperhead-positioned hand-breath).
That thick-veined, sandpaper palm even bleeds
a little, aye. Hey, it peeps through the weeds
of crosshatch lifelines, fateline... all that spent
J-man’s skittery-jaggery 88’s. As if an orb
lay nestled in a pidgin, sway-dangling ‘pon
wheeze-stablished cedar stool. Nested dome
or vexèd cave... magnetoreceptive earlobe-
jewel... some loco jeepers-mercator for wingèd
longing (Palm Trio, opus 1132 – or was it 3168?
– forget!). A lady, loitering in inner lake (wait-
staff in shuddery Lebanon) tripulates childhood
again (Bukovina, & Mendelssohn). Her J-coat’s
reversible, too – cue for tiny-teeny MOM to
harbor (O m’gal St. Lou-Pea!) yon angled OMO
(muses maiden Maggie, by the fire). Compost
compôte, geological Hobo-mélange (deep clay
formation – mellifluent limey, in crypt)... only
an aye-aye, in the hand of a hand – bifocal
bond, unbreakable foundation. Love’s foray
into crane-bone tune – Ocean Rose (smoke-sign
from clouds). Heart’s closest-secret closet
Sung y’Songe, that only Maggie understood – yet
swaddled in those hills (tight, tight). Shared. All.