Hazelwood Joe was a poor, milky substitute
for my father, with his failed strongman routine
and button-down muscle shirts that impressed

no one but my mother, by then orbiting
somewhere near Saturn, intrigued by the rings
and hoping to catch a little stardust.

He sought work as diligently as a dog worrying
a bone until, one day, he simply didn’t, and he
started farming flies by the kitchen windowsill.

All the while, I banged on the door of my future,
played warped jazz records, and watched the rain fall
over the town where dreams curled up like dead spiders.

# # #

Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he teaches and keeps strange hours and stranger company. He writes poetry as often as he can.