by Terry Adams
Puffing my cheeks like Louis Armstrong summoning the saints
I mastered the wax-paper comb for her,
cupping and un-cupping my fingers, my internal fame blooming,
while my mother listened with nodding praise
and asked me please go blow
just like that, down in the basement, because it would echo
so much better down there,
and I did it for hours, just for her.
And 40 years later I want to go back and thank her on her deathbed,
see her puzzled look up at me, which would say even now,
it really did sound better down there.
Terry Adams has poems in Poetry (Chicago), Ironwood, The Sun, Witness, Bellowing Ark, etc. My book is Adam’s Ribs, from Off The Grid Press, in Weld, Maine. I restored and live in Ken Kesey’s infamous cabin in La Honda, California, and right now I am very thankful for the RAIN!