Drunk-drove my new motorcycle
and ran over a tombstone
while hot-dogging
through the abandoned cemetery.
The next morning I returned
to fix the toppled piece of marble,
the word ‘INFANT’ carved deep,
only to find
an old man sitting
in a lawn chair
tuning a guitar,
surrounded by graves and cornfields,
house wren singing,
cicadas buzzing.
Where is that little man
inside here
growling through perched lips,
leering through wrinkled brow,
winking and growling again,
stomping side to side,
exhaling hard through nostrils
like a bull
before returning to bed
for a yawn and scratch?
THE FILTERED PRESS 