David Franks Week - poem by Kate Wyer

hey, this is Baltimore and your voice--

first heard in my dead dad's old beater--

was stolen with the radio but I used to

repeat your CANNA CANNA GET AN and then

the bam ba bambam

when I was driving and ravenous for pulse


yes, I noticed your big shoes, worn and without polish

and the way everyone gave way when you

walked and the deference they showed and

the seats given up but I couldn't just say,



Hey, hello, I'm Kate. I could have, I guess.

And then maybe you would have given

me some untoward line and a story

to repeat and if I continue this coulda coulda

we mighta had a laugh

about how there isn't such a thing as normal sex

in a Christian Nation, so why not try for the slow

flush of cheeks, we’re all perverts here and

amen and amen and amen.