Concerned about My Heart
four minutes between last breath, to be shaped into word or not, and what Dad lived — I see his screwdriver– as small as the pencils which scrawled on barn walls the time between matings and gun to drive wild dogs from the new-born– I see this tool, this shaping of steel as shiny as strings which Dad– his glory his banjo — strummed for woman after woman until he married more complexity than any man can foresee– I see this not only humble but small to the point of inconsequentiality implement he gave to me in appreciation of my having grown to be more than one mouth too many to be fed and to grow until, the vast crowd in my chest applauding no more, my own song will grow still.