—For Tom Surdam

Town's quiet—
aside from the timid
waltz of a porch-swing
wind chime and the backyard cricket
kingdoms. I passed the funeral
apartments, the static cat,
and the bar stool where my uncle
wore his soul sore on steel strings
in a wooden shot glass.
He was a good man, a cigarette
saint with a pacemaker scab. A tavern
sweetheart with a memory made
of drink chips and Marlboro foil.

I saw an asphalt toad on the bridge
bathing in the ghost glint of the only
stop light in town beside another
that was smeared like house paint
just inches from the storm drain,
from home.