If you subtract the minor1 losses，
you can return to your childhood too：
the blackboard chalked with crosses，
the math teacher's toe ring. You
can be the black boy not even the buck-
toothed girls took a liking2 to：
the match box， these bones in their funk
machine， this thumb worn smooth
as the belly3 of a shovel4. Thump5. Thump.
Thump. Everything I hold takes root.
I remember what the world was like before
I heard the tide humping the shore smooth，
and the lyrics6 asking： How long has your door
been closed？ I remember a garter belt wrung7
like a snake around a thigh8 in the shadows
of a wedding gown before it was flung
out into the bluest part of the night.
Suppose you were nothing but a song
in a busted10 speaker？ Suppose you had to wipe
sweat from the brow of a righteous woman，
but all you owned was a dirty rag？ That's why
the blues9 will never go out of fashion：
their half rotten aroma11， their bloodshot octaves of
consequence； that's why when they call， Boy， you're in
trouble. Especially if you love as I love
falling to the earth. Especially if you're a little bit
high strung and a little bit gutted12 balloon. I love
watching the sky regret nothing but its
self， though only my lover knows it to be so，
and only after watching me sit
and stare off past Heaven. I love the word No
for its prudence13， but I love the romantic
who submits finally to sex in a burning row-
house more. That's why nothing's more romantic
than working your teeth through
the muscle. Nothing's more romantic
than the way good love can take leave of you.
That's why I'm so doggone lonesome， Baby，
yes， I'm lonesome and I'm blue.