Time travels in odd adjuncts—
today, say, being the twenty-nineth Palm
Sunday my father would have woken
for, had he simply stayed alive.
Robert Plant sang that count of
palms, in California—as I was on my way
to Central Asia, skiffs upon those still
waters of Psalm twenty-three.
Today, as Plant would say, I’m in
the mood for a melody I’m in the mood for
a melody I’m in the mood; and format
won’t fulfill a carriage of relay.
Joshua washes feet that, as Bono
might agree, have mired through streets of
no name. He does so, naturally, for his
fathers, who relish in reunion.
I’ve poeticized about these petty
things before—how “do what Momma told
me” translates to wisdom and free will,
a blanket “way it oughta stay.”
We may read twenty-nine palms
to note what lines are scarred and tried and
true; I live in dog years, walking circles
twice a day in memory of you.
--DMVL
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