Features swallowed by the elusive width of
the rapid conversational finger
He was a guitar and asked my father
—straw hat a hole, a dangerous yellow hole
  a mesh
  between his inquire—
if he would like him to play something romantic
for the two ladies
but we were not ladies but pregnancy tests,
decked in sweet pinwheels to catch
the salt.
  A dollar he said a dollar I echo inside
  boundaries no more than of
him: burned a color behind my eyes.
He was brown, a ruddy hue that deepened by the moment
or maybe that was the six strings
I could not tell them apart.
He gave up or down
depending on your assumed position
and  strummed wildly in the style of himself,
he was half past eight and ticking
A collage of one dollar one dollar of he
                                                              and threw down the straw hat
                                                              and he was jointed color so long,
                                                              so long behind himself.