fire

from my small tragus
i hear the sound of your voice.
a choir of angels.

been on hands and knees
so long treated like a dog.
clawing through the mud.

cut from the same cloth.
now frayed around the edges.
a life worth living.

on the green back nine
the sun folds into the hole.
is the tally high?

from bully pulpit
stand truncheons and men in blue.
beating black and you.

a thousand paces.
the mile trodden in worn shoes.
and no end in sight.