Poetry by James Fleet Underwood
My gait aches, Kwan says I’m stooping,
and the nose I broke brawling with your cousin
wheezes in the winter, but more times than not
I’m staring at my toes and laughing
as if I just found the man I was looking for
standing sunburned in the grass.
You chat easy with us here, old friend,
our table cleared of plate and cloth,
smoking Drum and pushing coffee round a saucer
with your thumb, that waggish smile
tucked in several years of beard, and if I
don’t recognize the manifestation of your intent,
I know it’s love you always bring me.
We’re taking longer walks these days,
Kwan and I, going back to Strummer’s Hollow,
to that shed where you holed up with your Gibson,
where you wrote that tune of gals and gin,
a raunchy 12 bar riffed off with a grin,
and we kick up faded picks & broken strings – I
think she found that charm of yours,
the one you swore the barmaid stole in Reno.
Your spirit’s strong and flies here with October,
a stormy Michigan wet wood thing, though I
know you bang your can amongst the living,
and I wake those nights, hear a strumming,
get honey from the bed, and we walk the trails
swinging lanterns, asking wisdom from the bears.
James Fleet Underwood writes poems rooted in place, season, and daily life. His work explores quiet relationships with the natural world and the small rituals that shape human presence within it. Find him on X: @jamesfleetpoems and Substack: jamesfleetpoems.substack.com
