Prodded to anything different—burned coffee, noontime, a stain on the rug

Unwelcome in any mispronounceable Midwestern
small town, no room for us any where.
now--no need for drama or insight,
just someplace to line up a pair of
shoes, just someplace to make any

No craft, no ready-made, no butcher, no surrender, just the little bark-brown house.

I don’t have anything to give you.


Can’t reach or contract or angle toward or away
without flailing, screeching off balance,
whiskey too dear at noontime.

When the voice fails, what is there, but to listen.

We never were an anchor or a float, we never needed one, either.