Sad and Alone

Well, this is nothing new, nothing

to rattle the rafters in the noggin,

this moment of remembering

and its kissing cousin the waking dream.

I wonder if I'll remember it?

I've had a vision of a woman

reclining underneath a tree:

she's about half naked and little by little

I'm sprinkling her burial mounds

with grass. This is the kind of work

I like. It lets me remember, and so

I do. I remember the time I laid

my homemade banjo in the fire

and let it burn. There was nothing else

to burn and the house was cold;

the cigar box curled inside the flames.

But the burst of heat was over soon,

and once the little roar was done,

I could hear the raindrops plopping up

the buckets and kettles, scattered out

like little ponds around the room.

It was night and I was a boy, alone

and left to listen to that old music.

I liked it. I've liked it ever since.

I loved the helpless people I loved.

That's what a little boy will do,

but a grown man will turn it all

to sadness and let it soak his heart

until he wrings it out and dreams

about another kind of love,

some afternoon beneath a tree.

Burial mounds—that's hilarious.