Eight || Jeff Kilpatrick

after a famous classical piece of the same number by Franz Schubert

I

On a Sunday afternoon when your name stood

congruent to my age, you hitched yourself to

my house, sauntered up from the corner of

five miles of apple orchard, of Canadian attics,

sank veneers of fingers into a pillow quilt,

tire treads of persimmon bark, your own “before

and after” photograph, burned onto itself, twice as

sharp as nature’s staff, as starch on iron.

II

You can’t park your ride under my roof,

but her cousins can sneak in through pipes

and windows on stratified fingers of Regency fans,

craft unto me graven images of themselves, ransom

themselves into pints and half gallons dark as

the back of your shirt, sugar and lemon

to taste, my waking heart rate foretold in

your overflowing suit of pressed cups.

III

                                                             You died

when this page spoke you back to life,

but only to write and execute your will:

as long I live under  your subtitled name,

I owe you your voice, writing such letters

as only you could.

                             You’re two minutes short

of weaving tatters into the rain; the water,

equally close to another boil for more tea.

Can’t I trouble you for one more waltz?