Mother Tongue

Most venerable language,
    mongrel, bastard thing
patched together from everything else.
    An Anglo Saxon foundation.
A solid Teutonic core.

Then Latin & French, overlaid and infused
    with some Greek.  Hindu and Muslim
are welcome — Christian and Buddhist,
atheist, Jew.
You’re sort of a Potlatch.

Sort of a sponge — soaking up, mopping up
    dreams, tears, and bones.
And you get the job done:
    the love told
    the vow made
    the grief consoled.

You might trace out a slow, jazzy rhythm —
    a lusty, bluesy, Delta
    pleading tone.

Stream satoris of feeling and thought
into new hyper-haiku.

Or just bump down the road
like some old cucaracha,
     over washouts and potholes,
     through gardens with toads.

You run deep and true.  You stand up to abuse.
     You still look good. 
     And sound good.
You’re plenty of fun.
    You’re fascinating.  Useful.
    And you get the job done.


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