Even at 5 years he was haunted by a restless beat
that fused into a narrative
that went fetching for words to rhyme
to make complete

His voice a kind of squeaky twang
that leveled into low and high registers
he couldn't seem to tame
much to his parents' shame

He'd stalk about the trees in his backyard in Duluth
like an urchin on a mission
hugging his inventive rhythms to himself
and exulting in their satisfactions

Choiring sometimes with the mourning doves
he thought made a beautiful rendition
his blowing sweetly his imaginary harp
while other birds joined in with very few flubs

though often he'd roll in late for supper