NOTCHES

I used to burn through the summer

with hot feet and never stopped.

Everything I did notched

creation into the butt of my gun,

whether the smooth swing of that gate

I built into the fence,

or the love I made in the hay

down in the valley on the farm.

I had friends who could talk

a blue streak and knew how to listen,

when we met over cigarettes

and bourbon to discuss

all that stuff coming down the road.

Sometimes it was the girls,

the way they could slide around

all casual and sophisticated inside their clothes

while they laughed about some bit of fun

they found in a Bogart movie,

or a story about that time on the beach

when we all went skinny dipping, then

out to Jerry’s Bar for chili dogs and beer.

I was fascinated by the way they would

cross their legs and dangle one shoe

from the end of a light foot

and  quote D. H. Lawrence or

Bukowski at each other.

We danced whenever we could

to rock and roll, or the dirty blues.

Gentleman Joe was there for the best of it;

he watched us with quiet humor

and reminded us that, in the end,

it was all just foolishness.

Maybe so, but I would take another bite

of that sweet apple, if I could, and

acquire another notch or two.

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

An interesting and evocative piece of Americana yet with universal overtones.

[John Sullivan]

Ah, but you write and live yet. To create... and you do. Happy thoughts, Vol