Elegy. Early Autumn

I'm headed up to the Great White North To slap some paint on the locksmith's house Out on Rhubarb Farm, where the Northern Lights Tease the tar out of hungry coyotes.

I left the memor)' of my first born there. In the bedroom with the crooked eaves. Where a dirty bib lies in a cold, dark crib. Locked out from critical eyes.

There was a life here, many lives. None large enough to silence a world fuU of din. None rich enough to move ahead and keep assail. None firm enough to tough it out and settle in.

I'm headed up to the Great White North To pry boards from covered windows.