A Poem To A New Friend

There were baby buzzards
hopping short-tailed
in the pumpkin field
that day I saw
my past twisting in your
hair.

The Roar and Flame
of
Internal Combustion
was the rhythm
to a song
of which I already
knew
the melody.

And I sang, because
you did not know the
the words, but I
heard under your
breath
the humming of
familiarity.

So open your mouth
and sing with me!
We have been here before
together
and driven past these fields.

Let loose your
tongue and buy me
music,
because the tracks are cheap
and we have our
own instruments.

I can feel the missed notes and
our off-key
wailing
that we have made before,
but now,
with practice,
I think the sounds
will be
much sweeter.