The live oak still lives in the birthplace of Dallas,
ramified high enough, fifty falls after,
to block a bead drawn from the sixth-story window
at Houston and Elm. Why call it story?
Says here originally a row of windows
painted with pictures, but what’s the story
of a white-gloved hand grabbing the arm
that jerked up convulsed? What a day.
The sun crusades across the sky
despite the dark attacking early
as highs hit eighty, but does it count
as Indian summer without a prerequisite
killing frost? Doesn’t say here
why Indian summer, and as for pictures
a thousand words each, no way
any picture snapped at the scene
ever beat assassination
lisped by a six-year-old
missing two teeth. What a day.
No wonder he wanted the top down.
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