rudder

   
been tying twelve ounce blue ribbons    
around my sails all weekend    
waiting for the water to run wet again    
   
easy like sunday morning    
   
this fenced in one/sixteenth of a suburban acre    
has the weight of the world on its shoulders    
there's a man here that swears by the band aid    
thinks a good blues tune is worth every wound    
   
an old aluminum shed sits in the corner    
two years a zombie    
feasting on plywood brains to remain animated    
a two foot plastic rooster with stars in his eyes    
is screwed above the doors, long since off track    
   
next to it on the right, just beyond the hammock is-  
grandma's forsythia clipping, planted twenty years ago    
it has become a forest unto itself, fifteen yards by five    
always sprung a special yellow, a canary with black lung    
   
behind that, in front of the neighbors white acrylic boundary    
is three by six feet of forgotten dirt that the damaged man    
planted a prayer to the loving mender in    
   
he's learning to keep quiet when the season needs it