Monday, July 30, 2007

the shotgun house

rain, sitting in my old shotgun house
making time with my roof of tin
tapping, pushing some little steps in
that silly dance i love
and dreaming

baby boy, you can stand outside my door
all through the night
yawling and hollering, fierce in your
goodwill jacket, worn down to the
cotton fluff, ragged like your tongue
whiskeyed and slick

but don't scare away my mailman
cause the world comes calling
brings me whispers and gossips
and don't break the old man's tree
it knows secrets, it hides my
dandy charm

so tell me, little fella, pass something rare
something clever cross my door
make a bargain for a tale you've come
to hear, if you can leave me treasure
taken long ago

rain, you are a chatty tattler, hopping
here, fooling there, done with caution
making words out of the windy night
long and sleepy discourse, wrapped
for bed

here in my daddy's shotgun house, left
in a poker game, brown, like rum and
coca-cola, sweet with syrup, and he
couldn't hawk this place, or float it on
the mississippi

or i might write a book, razzing and
jazzing, full of sassy folk, all out of shame
forking twisty lines all up and down the page
write a book from no. 2 pencils, they know
the way

or i might waggle down to see new orleans
find a corner that says a thing or two,
peddle favors, get my quarters shiny
fill these pockets til they get too heavy
topped with dimes

life, you are a betting man, so take
that wandering fool somewhere he'll
win a bet, somewhere my door won't
knock him back, i aim to while away
my hours, here in this shotgun house

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