On the front porch at Frankie's

this is the only poem i wrote that was conceived in prison. it had been an awful day.  some dude in seg had been screaming all morning, on guy has ripped open stitches and had stuffed batteries into the open wound, and we had called 911 two more times for other trips to the hospital.  We were all feeling pretty frazzled.  after lunch, it was music time in the psych room.  Our clinical social worker (who was also a musician, last name was rockwell!) entered with his guitar.  the music was like cool water..i got up, stood in the doorway so I could hear the chords better.  and later that evening, sitting on the front porch at frankie's drinking a mint chocolate iced coffee, Mint Tenor was born. Thank you, Rockwell.

on the front porch at frankie's,

we sip iced coffee

and watch friday roll away

under the tread of cars passing,

hear the waft and fade of street voices

that call to an unseen someone, somewhere.

i am a tense tangle of days;

he is an oasis in the midst of chaos.

he strums me quiet,

graceful fingers along the

fretboard ease away the past week's

rush and roar cacophony

as he plays honeysuckle in dulcet chords

that float through traffic's whoosh

like yesterday's lost thoughts,

or the ghost scent of flowers

hidden in pine thickets.

his voice tastes like chocolate and

mint tenor that settles my mind

and spreads through my limbs

like balm,

or the cool drift of twilight

on summer eves,

and behind closed eyes

i feel only him,

hear only him

and the whispering marvel of how

he sings me peaceful.