At age 14, I hauled alfalfa hay
for a big bay mare, mucked
her stall while a Philco radio back
in the tack room blew a hurricane
for us both. It was the year when
sound was an ocean of drums,
we would wade into its grinding
tide and dive under its blue curl
of words. Or we’d sail to Nassau Town
with that belligerent grandfather
and know, even then, that we would
both make it all the way back
home. Me and my garlanded girl
could grab a guy, prance right
into the streets of Philadelphia, PA,
her mane braided with Morroccan
beads and my voice stuck in cracks
between the decades.
Back then you never knew
if you should follow the piper
or the preacher’s son. Remember
how the air was so full of music
you could hardly breathe?
