Handed

Talon banjos

and buffalo trombones

revel the blue screen sky.

Green hipped mountains

lie the left horizon

on Tredmore Road,

Scarboro, Sandy Hook,

Kalmia cuts the two—

Ady trailer park boys

cut the headlights,

rattle shake bones

in the flower bed,

metal frame

open mouthed in the front yard,

Pentecostal laughter

in Sunday white shoes,

the little leather strap

and gold buckle

hugging her instep.

She keeps up with Mother

by skipping,

tossing the stone

and hop-scotching—

don’t step on the cracks

or you’ll break your mother’s back—

the Indian whoop wa wa

in the dogwood tree.

She lives like a blue bird

in a tree full of bees,

and caterpillar web nests,

snap beetles

snap their feelers

in one-two timing

for Mater Dei saints

and Irish war paint

bares male faces,

from Graceland

to Babes in Toyland,

the same song til dawn,

rooster crow man

on the weather vein

calls for rain today.