Vocal
Outgrown, the prairie lot
where the ball hummed straight past me.
Wife and mother, spilt milk.
The girl who swooned for a baritone
is just a shadow in my bed.
A feast remains
for the hair-splitter:
Abe with an ax
running his thumb along the blade.
There were those who mocked
his squeaky voice,
but learned by heart
those ten pencilled sentences
on Gettysburg.
Plume: