A gem-hammer song knocks Little Rock into blocks.
That, the song, also a needle that sews
the pocket closed, that grasps the neck
of a blameless carnation
to death in a wet buttonhole.
Hang heads from the stoop to speak their shouts!
To speak their habitual shout!
If you meet a Little Rock man at his game,
his golf-ball stones, additional knuckles,
mushrooms grown bright from his very toes—
his concatenation of rebels,
rambles, upheavals, and misfitted lids—
one last blues, and a shout, “hello”.
-2004
