Stormy Weather in Alabama

In my story window I am standing in that cramped

frame house my father’s cancer built.

I stand by the sick bed of my memory,

while the broken skies, still numb from flashes of flashes,

let loose the radio’s blues stars, falling on Alabama.

The spinning-jazz-thunder of heavenly ruptures
and preacher man says, Find Jesus in the pain,

remember the silver marks of the good farmer in the land of Uz,

whose oxen plowed through a hard summer storm,

who stood firm.

Walking through a Barn frame of burnt ocher,

those three sons of men try to wind back the Grand-clock

with lord have mercy. In the field with no corners,

the flashing mirrors of wet red clay streaked
with a hint of horse and Dogwood remind me of those stars.

No signs of angels with burn sores, blues progression in G

no electric, elemental smell in the mist,. blues progression in b flat.

No light points towards those three watches, rumbling rambling

two lapsed from broken wires, while one still ticks.

I am again in the frame house, as the mahogany gloom

of the piano, spills dark day light onto the ceiling in wild fits.

Long gone, father, can't answer my questions.
I will never know, why the trees broke into summer fire,

or how to repair any clocks. 

I only know this morning, Three prayed in the kitchen corner.

Tomorrow one will pray from a different corner, his alone.

The wrong time will turn the radio dial to Lili Marlene.

Preacher man's Yakety-yaking will soon stop her voice

Burnt cornbread, and soup in the kitchen.

She’ll sing, “There'll be Blue Birds

over the White Cliffs of Dover,”

mocking the empty plate.

How long must the plate sit on the place mat mother?

Till he comes home, you silly boy.

Empty plates are all that I have now,

place mats and summer lightning bugs.

Why must they be so beautiful