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Willie Cooper, what are you doing here, this early in your death?

To show us what we are, who live by twisting words—

Heaven is finished. A poet is anachronistic as a blacksmith.

You planted a long row and followed it. Signed your name X

for seventy years.

Poverty is not hell. Fingers cracked by frost

And lacerated by Johnson grass are not hell.

Hell is what others think we are.

You told me once, “Never worry.”

Your share of worry was as small as your share of the profits,

Mornings-after of lightning and radiator shine,

The beater Dodge you bought in late October—

By February, its engine would hang from a rafter like a ham.

You had a free place to stay, a wife

Who bore you fourteen children. Nine live still.

You live in the stripped skeleton of a shovelbill cat.

Up here in the unforgivable amnesia of libraries,

Where many poems lie dying of first-person omniscience,

The footnotes are doing their effete dance, as always.

But only one of your grandsons will sleep tonight in Kilby Prison.

The hackberry in the sand field will be there long objectifying.

Once I was embarrassed to have to read for you

A letter from Shields, your brother in Detroit,

A hick-grammared, epic lie of northern women and money.

All I want is to get one grain of the dust to remember.

I think it was your advice I followed across the oceans.

What can I do for you now?

The Work of Poets

Rodney Jones

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