Dyin' Blues
Delta Blues Dying,
reports The New York Times.
Only four men, older than Satan,
still play: one in a wheel chair
uses a butter knife to bend notes
on his hollow body Epiphone.
His piece of the Delta heard
about That Salk Man too late,
and nowadays he plays for
busloads who email his blues
far from the Mississippi's summer-
cracked silt. In Tokyo,
when they hear it,
they know. They feel
something vibrate their bellies,
something that bends them blue.
Coconuts
Before she finds her winter cave,
to sleep through winter snow
and darkness, what does Harry Bear
require? December First? The yummy milk,
the crunchy meat of sweet her-tummy-full-
to-the-brim-digest-all-winter coconuts.
She books Air Canada to Honolulu. Coconuts
don't grow near Harry's cave
in North Alberta. The woods there? Full
of piney evergreens, and June snow
covers trees like milk
spilled. That's more than coconuts can bear.
First-class seat, ice cream sundaes, and Harry Bear
sits next to Honolulu Coconuts'
Vice President of Sales, who's drinking tea with milk.
He starts to cry: Summer cave-
ins, Mauna Loa lava, melting mountain snow
destroyed my coconut trees full
measure. No time for coconuts' skins to full,
like wet wool. (Coconut trees bear
nuts green, harden them to brown, like lava after snow
melts.) Harry Bear erupts: No coconuts!
Her hair pricks up. I left my cave
for famine? The startled stewardess pours milk
on Harry Bear, who leaps—she hates sticky, milk
on fur—leaps through the door. Her parachute puffs full,
floats her down to a deserted isle, a cave
nowhere in sight. Just rocks, sand. I'm one scared bear.
She starts to cry, then sees the palm trees bearing coconuts.
She shakes the tree trunks. Snow!
A blizzard of coconut snow!
She cracks them open on rocks. Sucks all their creamy milk.
I've never seen so many coconuts.
She crunches snowy meat until her tummy's full.
She hears a lullaby whisper: Harry Bear,
hibernate. She noses around. No cave.
but sunset, palm trees, coconuts, moon full.
Back home? More snow than I can bear.
Here, I'll sleep milk-full. The sky, my cave.
Tom Lombardo
142 17th St. N.E.
Atlanta, GA 30309-3322
USA
1-678-427-2483
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