It was daddy who introduced us

to crackers and eggs,
a recipe they used to fix in the depression
because the crumbled up
saltines supposedly made the scrambled eggs
go further, but whatever
the reasoning behind it, this is one hell of a dish,
if you leave off
the livermush, which daddy dearly loved, but had to
fix in a separate pan because mama
and all the rest of us
hated the smell of it and made him take his plate
to the den and huddle up to the philco
perching his breakfast on his knees, asking richard
to fetch him the ketchup
because back when he was working the lettuce in salinas
there wasn't any ketchup at all
and if we thought livermush was so bad
we ought to try rabbit fricassee
with the shot falling out on your plate like goddamn fucking bee
bees.

If there are heavens

i won't go knocking
at their front door
just go around back like gary gilmore
and stand in line
with him and the other strays
that come meandering in from salisbury
or the other towns up the road
that escort you to the city limits and tell you
to go on now git
this aint no place for the likes of you
or your mangy dog either
because if you had ever truly cared for anybody even
a little bit
you would not be out here begging
for some sugartit like a hereafter wretch holding up
a sign that says
will work for love of god and such

There's a scarred elm

barkless and grey leans high over my roof
rising from the old abandoned
gold mine
behind the house
roots anchored precariously in meandering shafts
where even the promise of earth is a lie
rot-splintered boards
hanging from nails in the trunk to mark where my son and I
built a ladder when he was a child
himself at rest now in the arms of the miners before him
whose legacy
has become these limbs blackened as if rising
from the methane
to send out barren branches like epiphytic orchids
loosely suspended in a china
blue sky
that cannot distinguish us one from the other
by leaf or by name