On Not Singing Alone

I favor sitting in the old chairs
by my front door when the guitar
and the sun is out
wind not strong enough
to pick the poppy petals,
neighbours mellow and not
panhandling. it helps to have
a hound around, lying out so flat
someone swears he’s dead but
for the twitch and snuffle.

The old stuff starts like a teapot
set to whistle; lonelies first, all the
memories, might’ve beens, then mountain
and cotton field songs which always
lead into Jesus. After that a bunch of road songs
some of them the blues and as much
part of me as my toes and whiskers,
singing till the words stick in the wind
like strawberry jam in a beard, till it blows
like Dylan, high and outside while dusk
settles in around us like a good old quilt
being shook out and sleep starts calling
for someone to lie down and get comfy.

Even if it’s just regular hurting, something
you can’t yet make out, or even death’s
drab daughter, I’m inclined to get someone
with any sort of voice at all
to come help me find the song.