Hodgkin’s’ Hole
There is a hole in the sky
Shining a dim light on Lampasas
And the old Oxbow Steakhouse
Hodgekins worked
At the store next door
For twenty infertile years
Till his ponytail turned gray
While standing on the steps
On his smoke break
He watched a large crow
Lifted by the breeze, settle
And check a bag
For chips
Bumping the Brim
The wind stole his hat
Getting help from
A fast flying ford
Picking up the haggard hat
From a puddle
He slapped it on his lap
And turned away from the thunder
Making the tin bell tingle
As he went through the door
Wind tumbled playfully in
Pushing paper in the air
Like the punks
Who send up storms of disorder?
In the store most evenings
Here was another bit of work
To hold him, for another day,
To the counter with the blue stain
In the shape of a skylark
Josh Kight
4/10/02