Ian Mullins

I a n  M u l l i n s 

next

Tom Waits

sings like

there’s a fistful of dirt

in his mouth; beats on

the guitar/drum/xylophone/marimba

like a runaway slave

bringing down the whip

on the master who sired him:

writes like a man standing over

the freshly-dug grave

of the only woman

he’s ever loved

while the pistol is still smoking

in his hand.