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Jordan Smith
New Wool Shirt
Like Kerouac wore, of course, or
My father-in-law on his farm
In that beat-to-hell town
On the Black River no one crosses
Twice or with half a brain
Between them as he said once
About a pair of brothers, neighbors
In a shack that had been a house
Once next to the closed-down
Paper mill that day we drove
To see the falls, no one home
And the water so low it was all
That reddish iron-streaked rock
You get to love for its utter
Refusal to be anything else.
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