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.
