three Black men
spooned from the same bowl
stand embracing in my father’s mobile home
the lightning flash of them frozen
in the amber of 1976
their rhyming saw blade eyes
sparkle like lit matches
men don’t smile, but they are happy.
arms interlocked long as the interstate
it is night
in every room where my father stands,
there is a river
here a hot river of oilsweetened with perch
laps the drawn curtain
three Black men
blues singers of borderless ache
soldiers
gamblers
cowboys
the mahogany concentration
of my father’s 10,000 mile highway stare
Cousin J.D. in a 1970s plaid juicy fruit leisure suit
And their great-uncle Iley
a human spear in a tweed flat cap
chin up and flaring like a knife
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