|Jan/Feb 2015 Poetry Special Feature|
Down South Texas way, it's just a harmonica
as everyone who loved Janis knows
unless they believe it was the sweet syringe
of lullaby she pulled from her red bandana
that impaled her and Bobby McGee
and then the black drape of cover-up,
everything still, a steamy room
filled with brazen, crazy flowers
that would have gone right on growing
if they'd been left in the garden.
If only it were only a song.