Sludge

Briefly I wanted
to be a jazz singer.
That was years ago.
But with my anatid ear
and harp jaw throat,
it was not to be.

For a time
I whistled with birds, but the jays
called me out — said
I was an octave too low,
said the wings of my lips
always flitter as gray.

These days,
I sit in a chair with the sunlight,
rocking and humming,
rocking and humming,
eyes closed in the rhythm of cars
fishtailing in sludge:

A song about a girl
and a two by four — a song
about a boy whose first act
of love was a broken window,
not knowing the jingle
of such a manly chord.

Image: Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

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