freestyle sonnet #6

(triggered by the first drawing ever of Snuffy Smith, who is tattooed on my right arm, as shared by Paul through the twitters)

colored pencils can't sketch how sketchy is the life
spent juggling scrap heap troubles amidst hardscrabble
strife; mountainside struggles to make peace with a wife
and raise half-wild children where the yardbirds cackle,
where the winter hogs forage 'cause scraps don't exist,
where the clapboards got gaps which whistle with wind, while
we making our ends meet though most middles got missed,
and the woodstove's hungry for a bigger woodpile,
plus the tin roof's pinholes drip droplets when the rain
starts to fall; "when it rains, it pours," like grandpa said,
which was more about money than the water stain
on the plywood ceilings hoverin' overhead;
we say we'll get by, while civilized worlds all scoff;
we drop literal "g"s to keep our actions soft.