S. Thomas Summers

Weep

I swear this here musket
ball is nicked up just so
that it looks like a cryin’

baby, like my own little
boy when he gets the hunger.
Gonna keep it in my pocket-

wish for a lick of good luck.
Maybe I’ll get to hear
my boy bawl again. That

there would be a symphony,
or somethin’ just as sweet.

Gen'll Lee, sir?

Since yur down talkin’ to all
us unimportant folk, I was hopin’
you could consider my mind a bit.

I know yur a smarter man than me-
if I had stronger brains I’m sure
I’d be wearin’ two shoes ‘stead
of just this here sorry one,

but me and a few of da boys
been thinkin’. We been marchin’
here and there a good spell
not knowin’ where we off
to any more than my ass
knows where my feet are headed.

Kinda like we just some big
gray cloud floatin’ here and ther
as the wind sees fit ta push us.
Kinda like those old Jews after
they bucked out of Egypt, started
roamin’ the wilderness. Now,

don’t take this sour, sir. I’m
sure you thank the Almighty
before supper’ but you ain’t
no Moses- so I’m wantin’ ta
know what ya got in store for us.
My ear is yurs, sir…bend it.

New Pain

Stretched out in this wood
with a musket ball feastin’

on my knee, Lord gives
me moment to see

things I generally don’t.
Bullets zip through the tangle

above like angry birds,
rippin’ leaves from limbs.

Each fall as gentle as an angel
floatin’ down from heaven.

Worries me that all this hell
is startin’ ta look pretty.

I've Decided to Walk
 

Geese raise their necks
above tall grass like question
marks. Hornets mingle

on the fringe of a beer
puddle. Shards of amber
lie still as Humpty

Dumpty’s corpse, crunch
beneath the heft of each
step. You’re already

sipping coffee, listening
to a symphony of silverware
tinks, waiting for me to step

into sight- my denim jacket,
my Yankees’ cap, a pocket
full of apologies.
 

© S. Thomas Summers