Ravens play in snow. I deserve a some inner sanctum time.
A school kid, I’d press hard into my paper,
the soft wood beneath. Not much
has changed. Clock above the cabinets.
Smell of burnt wood splints. Bunsen
burners. Mr. Williams rubbing his fingers
over his forehead. Carcass of a dissected
mink. The smell. Sun a communion disk
through winter clouds. I’d walk home
swinging my black cornet case crammed
with evening’s homework. Folder
full of sheet music. I’d stop for a bottle
of green soda or, Thursdays, my lesson
at Southtown, canyon
of amplifiers, Gibson SG’s: hanged men.
theme from “The Godfather”
for Louie Cattarucci, maestro and former
drummer for Captain Beefheart. The Ravens
visit Thailand, look at each other quizzically.
Tower of London, The Ravens wear blue
bands on their legs. Julie
looks at the television through her yellow
Ranger Rick binoculars. Sunday evening,
work tomorrow, and I don’t know what pain
reliever to take. A life rich in detail—
dirty snow, worn rubber, oil, exhaust
and ice, a cocktail the bullies loved to wash
one’s face in, cornet case thrown in a slushy
drift, traffic crowing and Louie smoking
calmly, watching from his storefront window.