drank cider with the lost boys;
~~
They went south of summer for the winter,
and were taken captive
by Joni Mitchell coyote�s
in the white lines of the freeway.
~~
In the sunshine that seeps through
a break in the rhythm of the canopy,
when the voluminous face
I beheld between the leaves,
was the last likeness I knew.
~~
When I found you
there was murder on your tongue,
bloated blue;
and Queen Street had infected your veins.
So tell me?
What did those used record shops do to you?
~~
Now, you sit in solitude,
(your last letter told me so,
eight years ago, when my dad lost his job:
with the tools I made do,
and dug a small hole by the fence.
Tossed seeds, spare prayers,
last winter a new job grew.)
Late bloomer.
~~
Loving the reflection you see,
and laughing when the old question
arises, anew,
phoned in on a twenty-four pledge-a-thon,
or two:
Why bother?
Why should I bother with you?