Michael Waterson Poems

Even on days he is condemned to shake
off dusty death and rise again to make
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The quiet boy from Tupelo
set tubes aglow with cotton-pickin’
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Devoid of Keaton’s martyr soul
And Chaplin’s saintly grace,
Destruction was their holy role,
And bedlam sacred space.
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Lordly, locomotive words scattered at last
underfoot, elusive pigeons on Penn Avenue.

Not a fox, but a mutt, a terrier trailing your blood-scent,
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