for Robert Frost
I added to my Litany of Misdeeds,
8 dollars in my pocket, minted.
My little sister had hinted,
to bathing naked beneath the reeds.
And mother before her,
bore her everything bare,
and then slowly lost touch of fur,
the feel of her hair.
Well father was known for his anger,
Not knowing her,
or how horrific the bout.
And with no sympathizing,
the illness that what would come,
was not surprising
at least not to some.
So they wrapped my sister in starched cotton,
and they bound her arms.
I have not forgotten,
the hills of those farms,
where she and I would scout,
we would chase the dogs,
we would fish for trout,
and feed the hogs.
And I just a raven,
at my writing table
I am clean-shaven,
reading the deed for the gable,
and my mind has done it's share
of highs and lows,
and I hope that God knows where
her little mind goes.
Tickle your toes. . .
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