Some minds will never grasp the trumpeting
Southern heart. I don’t know what to do
without black mountains overflowing with the shouts
and hollers of umpteen mamas calling their children


home. These are my human voices. A purple stream
half-sobbing among the pineywoods, whispering
a rhapsody like glory pure. I miss common folks
who ain’t too shame to dance


an all-embracing reverie to the blues.
I want to be back where the saved and the damned reside
side-by-side and are oft times one and the same.
I’m homesick for gossiping over a highball


in a hot kitchen. I want to be told to stop
crinkling my nose at a hog maw
no one ever said I had to eat. I’m all about
brawling over a 25¢ hand of cards. I admit that


I’m not above jelly rolls and tea and backdoor pals,
the romance inherent in a departing train. Please
hand me down some lovin’
tailor made for this bag of weary bones.


My heels are echoing on concrete,
a virtual percussion conjuring spring. The report
Is just enough to tease me into
this conversation with myself.