I am

 

I am

I am from Sibley Hospital
in Washington DC where
my mother bought me
like military surplus
after World War Two.
The receipt she saved  
in a dusty drawer
made me sneeze:
“Delivery (normal) $48”
stamped PAID.

I am from B&O coal cars
pennies on the track
under rivers of black
from mountains made hollow
for the city.

I am dust from hitchhiker’s thumb
blown from Appalachian lowland
to foggy redwoods of California.

I am lapping tongue of dog,
many whiskers, one spirit.

I am the dripping faucet
the rot of old wood.
Call me, I’ll repair.

I am stories
I can’t stop telling
words I can’t stop writing
including my own receipt:
“Exit (normal). No charge.”
Past due.

…..

The photo is of me, 1954 in my favorite cowboy shirt, a hand-me-down from my brother. People were always telling me “Smile!” I would not.