Poetry By Sarah Carleton

John Buie CC




Joe’s Tune

Picture a tree with a loud voice, a mountain of knees too big 
for the café table, hunched shoulders and a direct

regard, a beer close at hand and a joke repeated--
a guy who bumped uneasy elbows with the world 

of alarm-clock setters and self-care.
Picture vivid carpets rolled and unrolled all over his shop

as he wove himself a cocoon of colors, 
letting the rest of us keep our day jobs 

while he conjured survival with kilim and gigs.
Young musicians—and tolerant older ones—were drawn 

to his warm, scratchy orbit like moths to wool,
circling up with this huge guy who held a bow

between delicate fingers, the fiddle tucked under his chin 
like a bib, his tunes rough and rhythmic and inclusive.

I should add that someone or other was always on the outs
with him, weary of the bluster.

The last time we saw him, he was small, diabetes having 
sucked out mass and buoyancy, and was being 

his own version of careful—just a few cigarettes, 
just a couple of beers, just a dessert or two 

—and we knew nothing would slow down 
the boulder rolling toward our friend.

​

Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Valparaiso, Rattle, ONE ART, and As It Ought to Be. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books, and her second book, Sprung Loose, will be out in the fall.