Late crickets from low crevices
scree high morse code
along the River Road,
mourning what vanishes.
The trestle bridge shoulders its iron
rust refrain. Hobo,
Henry rehearse their slow
converse – where’s Bunny Rabbi gone?
He talked in sign lingo, for fun;
smoke signals over Pipestone
bearded the Old Gray One
whose windy glance was made of sun.
The bards were babbling nonsense
around the Ink Palace...
forgive their lack of grace
whose pride is their inheritance.
Meekness is the key to peace,
a mule named Franky said;
our mutual Day of the Dead
fringes each cot with golden fleece;
both enterprise & government
rest on bone shoulders
of the poor – our diverse
attitudes were never meant
to drive us to unpeel the Union.
Pensive eyes discern
gray beech limb’s copper urn
of reconcilement (smiling veteran).