The next one is a title poem from the second half
of the manuscript called, "Haywire Cox."
And it continues a character that I introduced in the book
I read from a minute ago.
The town philosopher and obese fellow
who likes to sit in front of the pool hall on a bench and talk,
named Stocker.
"Haywire Cox" is the name of the poem.
This small song for Haywire Cox.
His limbs at rest at last now at the bottom of our beer mugs.
Haywire Cox, kicked in the head by a milk cow,
no more dangerous, Stocker said, than a Baptist neutered.
What Haywire Cox was doing behind that cow
and at such an angle, only Haywire's arms, and hands,
and fingers ever knew.
And try as they might, they were never
able to flail forth the truth.
Like wires busted on a bale of hay,
Stocker said, holding nothing and going off
dead ended in all the wrong directions,
yet their tireless antics set it all.
There had to be a reason, and a good one.
Sure as Adam broke his teeth on apples.
And he who doubts it, Stocker said,
does so at his own and everlasting peril.
Thus, this small song for Haywire Cox.
His animation at rest at last now
at the bottom of our beer mugs.
And a toast, Stocker says, for that one fountain
cow or Christ whose will commands the awful imprint that
knows best.