Hot Arkansas' Summer

wait
while the black boys pause
kick the can near
a river made mystic
by a saint
who drowned
thinking i
thirst too much
for God

wait mister what's
that? he says
three shots ring 
like a silver blood 
vessel
popping 
like a violin pipe 
bomb  
like the last act of
armistice  
like the loud itch of
hopscotch off 
a tall bridge.

three shots,
Frank
considered here
for the perusal
of those who might
have known you
and heard
by very few,  you
might like to know.

and of course i 
know the moon can 
be tempting, shining 
as it will like one 
of those heavy bright stars
you kept in your drawer.

wait
while the black boys 
stop and the can
falls, with you and 
your letters into the
river.  you might 
take note that 
the saint swam away