Jamaican Kids on a Painted Skiff

Truth is, I don’t travel.

We’re still in Kansas

Where, this time, you’re privileged

To catch my call home

And my announcement that I’ve traded

My obsession with this, for my obsession

With that, and I’m broke

Again. The sorghum has kept its promise,

It totters like money out there, safe height

Above rot and sway,

Poised on every variegated pitch.

You can set your watch to its obedience,

And to my failure to pursue the big questions

In my fishing and the poems herein.

But, hey, it’s pasture-burning time

And I don’t mean to bring you down.

Look to the east, or west, or even

Up north by the hushed lights of Hebron—

Fires—

All night, for nights, so that

You can hardly keep your eyes to yourself,

And I wouldn’t blame you as you pause

With the motor still running,

And then head out to meet your future

Like a blind man searching for headwaters

Of a great river, dust and smoke.