(for Tom Waits)

At last I’ve managed it,
left the earth, my cigar box possessions,
a veteran’s things—–
those stranger’s shouts,
that derision, that heart jag…
The only thing I kept was a trombone,
brass-braided, & its slide, my own
knucklebones shed from slavery years.
Sure it may stink & have some rooster’s gravel
groan, but I tell you there’s exuberance here
&, besides that, enough rain to be wrung,
wrung-sung, to clear, suspend funk, yes,
chasing away all that jive.

Stephen Mead is a retired Civil Servant, having worked two decades for three state agencies. Before that his more personally fulfilling career was fifteen years in healthcare. Throughout all these day jobs he was able to find time for writing poetry/essays, and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid for this work. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, https://thestephenmeadchromamuseum.weebly.com/