those big houses on main street
became a whiskey whose sight
we drank until drunk

forgetting crept in like nightfall

way home winding
through the straight streets

leaving required no energy
not even goodbye.  every sunday
we wished jesus close, working

against the heat waving over
our mother's face, like that,

             printed fan, and heavy hearse
             whose long black back meant
             more than death, somebody

was gone, couldn't stay, bus
station's just down the road.

              I walk that way, everyday
                           everyday.