Dixieland Death in the Shenandoah
I sleep each night with Charles in my bed.
Not quite the whole of Charles’, but his hair
Lies underneath my pillow near my head
And not so near my heart. A sad affair
You might well think, and that is true, except
A beauty lingers there. The dark black lock
Lies curled in its plastic bag inept
At doing anything, more like a pock
That healed than like a prayer request fulfilled.
A dried up pock shaped like prayer denied
Lies underneath my dreams. His head was killed
By God. He made a lightning bolt that fried
The head of Chuck, as full of whimsy as
A mystic with a wand might make of jazz.
~ Phillip Whidden