REMEMBERING JACK MURPHY
I have a sharp struck silver dollar
reeded like a gear,
thumb troubling edge,
a thing I had from him
when he was old
and I was new.
Age had poured milk in his eyes,
made a blue so pale it seemed
the doubled image of the ruin of the moon.
Fierce, demanding, knowing and denying
how it was to be bound for the breaker's yard,
born and beaten on the anvil of the sky,
he just kept on.
A morning came it seemed he'd stood
and left the room.
Found a favorite horse, perhaps.
My dollar tarnishes,
and I am not so new.
Time twins distance.
Distance nails to heart
like a hoof-shaped shoe.
Hear Scott Murphy read 'Remembering Jack Murphy'