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Between

This deer ... its flanks-ripple at my step: Working Man's Blues
creamed coffee
in a cup just put down. son of working-stiffs
of old country
I want to name it "rne" in the corn stubble
that wings revolutions
its silver hooves with frost. i pushed the mop
across a greasy floor
Moons open in its eyes
like the yellow lights of a farm house son of wanderers
where a man drinks coffee i pounded pavements
and peeling doors
and sees a deer bro~sing outside, getting an education
Ora boy aiming his first gun. from vacuum cleaners

I would give fingers son of street corner
to bring back deer I killed. intellectuals

This deer i canted dusty
with silver flames at its feet would not histories into ears
take them. stopped with comic books

AfichaelAfcAfahon today i've got a desk
a corner of my own
the government
picks up my tab
for chapters of boredom

and in the margins
i scrawl

coffe-stained dreams

23 B.R. Strahan