DOG HUCKA DOG

Deep in the back of the barn the bongoes
get banged with abandon.
Deep in the back of my throat vile lyrics
lick about the corners of my lips

and spill like hobbled miracles
into the microphone and must,
dancing on their way out about
the spout of a bottle of beer

nearly empty.  You’re turning two
and it’s a hoot.  We toot and holler and strum
using smoke as an elixir
and memory as our drum.

7-26-97