Almost Seven -- Poetry

Something about David Bowie's death got to me. Maybe it's because he never seemed old to me. And only old people die. Right? Here I go waxing nostalgic. Here's a poem from Three Part Harmony, a chatbook I published many years ago with two poet friends.

From when my son was    

Almost Seven

legs growin'

Momma raised seat on bike

lowered hem on pants

come to shoulder on 

Great Grandmother she

makes things in clay

plays dominoes

likes me

knows I'm almost seven.

arms gettin' strong

Father takes me fishin'

fish with bow

catch gar some in

Cimarron

get brown like berry

look like I'm almost seven.

school startin'

go second grade

ride bus to Grandfather's he

let me dig potatoes

milk goats

drive tractor

cause I'm almost seven.

soon September

come birthday

then be

goin' on eight.