Drawing to break life’s rhythms
It was just a sketch, but
there was a line
that stretched between
your house and mine.
There was the balcony
and the pecan tree
where I sat so mama
wouldn’t spot me.
My life was here, my home
was distant, you used
an orange colored pencil.
Sometimes Mark would play the banjo
if Galla was sobbing, his fingers
were faster than fire, his smile
was cooler than milk.
He sat on a barrel that was
narrower than his shoulders but
a bit wider than
the brim of his hat.
We only stayed out when
the evening was warm
and a chill whispered warning
of a midnight storm.
Life could not be ordinary…
Dana made dinner
she lay fresh flowers
on the dish with the trout.
[The balcony ran between
our houses, to skewer the lamppost.
It was always
the crushing divide.]
The balcony was mine,
as were the windows
because, without within,
I would be nothing.
The tree was yours
but, alas,
the pecans were mine, too,
if they fell on the grass.
What was it called
when you drew
this beautiful place
in the bayou?