Sweet blood, tobacco in the air
lifts conversation to a plane so rare
that I can see the Indian red tobacco grow
at the overflow end of the chicken row
and feel the sanctity of an inner office
where a friend hides in authority.
Trust takes me back to certainty
in even my meanderings.
I sit again at the melamine surface
of the trailer’s fold-out table where
I was given license to know.
I praise the providence my parents
gave me, setting me out underneath
the stars. Grandparents, teachers,
suspicious friends, I thank you all.
I witness glory in consumption,
the poets’ feeding frenzy,
floating their identities past Mars.