All omens are personal. Some are for old men with teeth in their pockets. Others are for mothers with ten arms and four legs. Mine is a silver dollar that I didn’t give to the man under the bridge. I planted it in autumn, but I won’t make it to spring. The girls say I’m too busy to pay attention. But who can watch the ground when the rain might come? If I drop dead outside, they’ll keep the homegoing short. You’ll know me by the hours of the birds. Count ‘em slow like you love ‘em, like you meant to do it, like you’ll miss the sound of the last wings. Baptize the fried fish and white bread in hot sauce.
Published in Height Chart (Middle House Review)