This is the current version
BETCHA BY GOLLY WOW
(for Phyllis Hyman)
What blue wail is this, whose child so alone
St. Clair Village playgrounds fill with her notes
that drift past Sawmill Run til dusk1? And quotes
brick echoes, bounce as rubber balls off stone
walls reflecting deep in Southside streams
or aim to fill a glass with half-poured woes.
Then pulls bipolar boxcars1 in its flow,
her breath now quickly gaining speed and steam.
Phyllis, how your lips could pucker with flair,
and barely brushed my naked neck one night
with little scarves of whistled melody
whittled from June2 rain. What now haints the air
and dares to dip or flutter by3? What kite
straining at its cord, rising to twist free?
——————————
1 last train her mascara still running
2 June darkness fireflies and police lights
3 on the shoulder of a pallbearer a butterfly
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