Cup Hooks · A Letter... · Unusual Quilts

A vernacular Christ in cowboy boots
who never attended Princeton,
but pig-rolled danced in mud
for the sake of its chill on hot sultry days,
Jack thought money needed
to stay busy like June Cleaver
in a bright kitchen plopping
more potatoes on empty plates.

His flesh was a scrapbook
of mutilation's mutiny--
its corners beveled by the wind.
He ate real butter and smoked.
Proud of the rings he blew our way.
Said wrinkles were there as
reminders of times they weren't.
His humor had that sweeping reach
like cup hooks of an octopus.

When he shaved off his mustache,
he saved the hair,
thinking those follicles might reseed
in a bald garden of Bosnia.
If try rained, that is.
I knew, just knew, when
the doorbell rang and he was there,
I'd opened the cover
of a great, great book.

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