IN HIS COLOR

 

 

The fingers of his childhood

pointed into heaven, teasing angels

with music food, coaxing their beauty

to his porch to slap their wings

in approval.

 

Mockingbirds held the tongue

of their voices when his horn

owned the air, bending

the sky onto the dust of his shoes.

 

Fields of labor stirred the rocks

of his shoulders and the creases

deep in his hands; long days

formed his strength.

 

The jazz put him deep in his color.

 

 

 

 

 

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