Christmas Poem

In July, when the air hangs like a
Dense sheet of plastic smoke,
Children hope for today.
They pray for the death of leaves
And would gladly sacrifice summer’s
Freedom for a glimpse of a
Rotting tree in the living room.

In July, children with dirt caked
On their cheeks and small streams
Of sweat carving clear paths through the grime
Make lists in hope of today.
They browse catalogs and furiously scribble
1-800 numbers from television commercials
In anticipation of today’s perfection.

And tomorrow, when garbage bags of
Glittered paper and bows with intricate loops
Sit disheveled on a frozen curb,
Children with sweaters they hate
Will plead with the Christ-child to hurry July,
So they can play with their new football.

Juke Joint, Memphis 2007

The sound of the slide of the glass
Over the steel and wood,
Buzzing and moaning and reliving
Decades of stomping sun-cooked cottonseed
Into red Alabama dirt,
Soaked into the walls.
The smoke from cigars—
Cylinder signs of cool—
Drifted and swirled underneath the ceiling fans.

When the song broke,
Just that half beat of forbearance,
He sang.
He sang like a tractor,
Full of grease, grit and smoke,
Tearing through the hard soil
Of a drought laden past.

Tonight when we leave,
I’ll go to Midtown down Cooper Ave.
And sleep with my windows open.
He’ll be on the Westside remembering
The road from the Blackbelt to Clarksdale,
But hell, at least he’s close to Beale.