Kazoo

These stories
That my bones whisper
Are no longer mine

With every breath
I give them back
To the teller

Consigned to
The belly of a laugh
Or a pint of crude

Neither brings comfort
But believing in something
Creates heritage

Down below the root line
Becoming a fraction
For scratching heads

And in a straw-straight breath
Or reed's breeze
Is a marching tune
--
4.11.11