I had gotten my hands on a car
and it had a tape deck
and my dad
had dug
some old recordings
up from his mother’s attic—the sounds of my uncle
practising
playing
at blues guitar
(dead in africa
winds blow
long ago)
sang clumsy the wind
as we turned corners
like a ghost knocking over a piano
and I asked tactful questions
careful
as a child weeding grass
learning
by mistake
what flowers are.