Bubba Jones had two thumbs
on each hand — he yowled
into the night, perhaps with hope
love was blind enough to miss his deformity.

I told him to live
not in the shadows, but in the middle
of the meadow near the tallest trees
where the song birds sang

Listen, God, just listen
to them dance on kindly airs
and tell each other stories
of loves lost for lack of color.

I thought he understood
until the night he gave up
and found himself
dead beneath the wheels
of an orange and white Chevy pickup