Karl Roulston

There’s gum in the gearbox and cartons of cans, cream for the castor and foam for the stickpin.  There’s silk on the deckhand and grease on the runway, cat for the cashbox and wax on the glass.  There’s clam on the halftrack, a home for the hand truck, and hats to be had.  Lots of lots in that yard.  Lots of yards in those miles and light in those years.  With fruit on the gooseneck and feed for the birdhouse, with baths for the asphalt, there’s ash for the asking.  Crates for the grapevine and lace for the lease.  Handful of hardtack.  Huts for the nightshade.  Ghost in a trumpet and coils in a comb, cards for the cameras and cloth on a crane.  Lots of steam in that sea.  Lots of green in that gray.  Lots of bump in that burg and gain in that loss.  Brick on the trowel and flowers for Bessie.  Needles for Cecil and whistles for Stan.  Bubbles for beakers and tubes on the table and sun in that stone.  Lots of flag in that film.  Lots of time in that sack and some tarts for the trailer.  There’s grain in the attic and pearls in the alleyway, heat in the river and rust in the rain.  Lots of we in that you.  Lots of knots in that wheel.  Lots of chrome in that coat and a bus for the duster.  Must for the mudguard and gas for the plaster.  Dots at end of the line…

KARL ROULSTON is a poet and blues harp player whose written works can be found in various great weather for MEDIA print anthologies and George Wallace-edited e-journals.