by Elly Call
He carried the radio
because it might have been his infant.
Its cries provided his unusual building materials.
Beyond the collonades of guitar twang he set
in front of himself, around himself, behind himself,
Was the glass-trash gravel.
Some sassy traffic.
None of this mattered to the man who took the blues and constructed–
(Ionic musical sequence, the symmetrical harmony of temple relations)
No his head was never covered.
(The heart of the house was the courtyard.)
Blueprints in his ears’ curved soft shells;
He owned the sidewalk so
I crossed the street,
Perserved the home.