Mike

In plain twin urns
Flanking your gray stone
Blue hydrangeas
Mother keeps fresh.

Nine years have passed.

I'll whip
Jimmy McGehee again,
If he picks on you...

The Indian
Whose hatchet cut your lip,
I saw him, I'll say...

Thunder. Cold rain.

Brother, what we
Your family were willing
To do, left
Too much up to you.