Monday, April 13, 2015

INTERVIEW WITH A GRAVEDIGGER BENEATH A ONE-CROW TREE.




He ain’t very bird brain, what? I aimed
the barrel of my shovel at him: he could figure.
A shovel don’t fire no bullets. Up there
cackling ain’t the right word but tore the sky in half.
Racket like gulps of liquor lubricating a throaty laugh.
Aw! Aw! Aw! (Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.)
Then I got a sixty-watter over the noodle. I’d been
digging six feet down all day, so I dug a little grave, what?
I caught the crow’s eye. The crow caught mine.
Slowly, I led the crow’s vision to the little grave.
He could count: six inches deep, what?
Looking into his black mask I could understand
a thousand years of—the necessity of—mob action.
Then he was a whirly scarf banking away, quiet.


for 2015 NaPoWriMo sonnet #12: Interview with Gazongo the Exotic Clown
for 2015 NaPoWriMo sonnet #14: Interview with a Pedestrian at a 4-Way Stop


2 comments:

mark wallace said...

The last five lines of this one are killer good.

DAN / DANIEL GUTSTEIN said...

Ha ha! I guess the trick is -- making sure people read that far. Thanks for taking time to read & for your kind words.

---------------B.A.