Father, in summer's rocker he'd
won in a poker game a friend
lost with two Jacks
covered, at hand
wand of a ladle
turning a crock
of homemade brew
coming on empty;
in the street two
crows lost in traffic.
On another oak rocker my
sister found yellowed
in a Maine barn, his
leg from just below
the knee still
in a bag some-
place, both eyes
in similar flight;
him hearing cat purr
of a half-filled crock
of brew, listening for stars.