I’ll be your blood, your taste, your touch

 

I’ll be your blood, your taste, your touch

In my head
I hold a mental map
of all the pipes beneath these streets
because I laid them there;

and in my fingers, spark
of all the wires
on those poles
because I strung them there;

and in my muscle,
lift of lumber — stud, joist, rafter
ever after because
I nailed them there.

Little town, I built your bone,
your vessel, your nerve.
Now dance, now play.
Now taste your father’s kiss.

…..

First published in Visitant —thank you editor Andrea Janda
Photos from Pixabay

Hear me: 

@joecottonwood