If you can’t learn from history—save yourself a few years, circle back, and burn your own barn.
— A Proverb from the Storms
I catch the winter swan-jazzed
downstream with its swanky snow
flying way on south, the lemon
trees shake icicles from sunlight.
A patrol car keeps sliding
inside my mirror. I hear Charlie
Parker jangling Shreveport up
through the long hauling train.
The music gets pasted on skin.
Feel the harmonica roll off
like the squabble of two brats
tasting the last cold slice of pie.
(From the new book, Fiddling at Midnight’s Farmhouse, by Clyde Kessler, poet.)