Old men rock on porches like tools
Whose handgrips lie rusted.

Even the wood has broken its fingers
Where they spit chaw.

Their eyes are dry wells, wrinkled
Lands of curious light.

A green field lays siege to a rusted
Mercury that finds rebirth

A shelter for small animals and birds,
whose owner left for Dallas.

(Tanner has recently discovered an early manuscript
from the late 1960's and will post a few poems)