This morning to mark his passing
I accompanied the coffee maker
in a song about dawn, that shimmering
moment between cup and lip,
sting of intoxication like hammered
banjo strings, sun leaning in to lay on
high buttery harmonies.
We drowned out the tepid choir
droning radio news, me and my greasy
trio, frying up a cooking little number
about eggs over easy, hash browns,
bacon and toast. Skillet, knife and chopping
block taking a new swipe at a sly
old tune with more than one meaning.
Later on we sang a round that circled
back so often we all got carried away;
a glass, some paper, the pencil I cling to
like a trapeze, set free to watch the world as it
turn, turn, turns below, a hootenanny
of voices that worry the hairline cracks
in the tone deaf walls of Jericho.