What Wakes A Second Fire? Poem by John Courtney

What of an empty root
sipping on its pride
and army jackets
slept in boxes
that won't fit,
what of the bank
circling that widow?

What of a gold watch
folded into copper
and my novel
never finished
on her shelf
to center time?

What of the wild face
of Father stoned open,
the neon lock latched
when I close his eyes;
what of a Sun's heart
melted into stone
on the jukebox,
a closed rhythm,
my favorite drink?

What of that old house
sold first day on the market
and its lion lured
weakly into a
bible's pension?

What of this government,
its weather, its drugs,
its Texas prison,
its seams that split
on dorsal fins
of corporate sharks?

What of the empty boots
standing in my closet
and the stripes eating
stars in the rain,
is it wrong for them
to swallow?

What of a million miles
and of my brother
in motel flickering
lower than light?

What for my final meal
on the rooftop of my weight,
where the streets stop
and the rivers continue on?

What of a million more,
is it wrong for me
to ask?

To swallow?