Reservations 

Hawk and spit, hog-carriers of it all;
each sting atop the skin is prongs of duty.
Hug the sand in foundations, barbs, and
corrugate, list and swell these ranks on
swells colliding. 

Hawk and spit, go inward, hyphenate
between those resolves given union in these
times and timely stretches, in these
tops of tender shirts that orphan their
wearers to men-crowd-men, to
a martial career’s foster. 

I hawked and spat once, and was
spent and hucked back,
too wiry for the winces, too
singular for the vintage, and
two weeks in,
far too mad to forge my manners
any more spanned across those boots. 

Hawk and spit, scalder ones, be given
tools, innoculations, be along the pave,
be all that one can be, necessary, now, 
paced and loved, groved and gifted,
stopped and sat upon every scorched
aftermath, every dismantled drought.

© Ray Succre/Oregon