Byron Hoot

For days I've been hearin'
what I can only describe
as a fist from eternity against
my roof, my doors, the sides
of my house, my truck.  Distinct
is the sound of those knuckles.
I fear, like a doctor hammering
my bare chest with two fingers
to see if something's wrong,
my heart will be opened
and those fingers from that fist 
will drum a song waiting to see if
I know how to dance,
not waiting too long, finding out
if I'm a dancin' fool
or just an ordinary kind.

One Thought on “Knockin’”

Comments are closed.