Nickname

[Philatone]

perhaps best to rest, i've nevertheless gone on with another edit. thanks to tec for giving me more to work with

v.7
As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
Pennsylvania wades across its top;
a photograph straddles the left corner
as a scrawl limps in the center.

Before we pass the intersection,
the signature becomes clear:

it does not claim the six foot owner,
or capture a deer
in a maturing wood.

Read aloud,
it does not even turn a head
as it escapes into the crosswalk
through a cracked window,
leaving us to ride in silence -

the driver, unchained to the autograph
crammed in his pocket,

the passenger, rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.





v. 6 reworked a number of phrases, save for the first and last stanzas

As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,
his license flashes into view.

Pennsylvania wades across its top,
a photograph straddles the left corner
as a scrawl limps in the center;

before we pass the intersection,
it hits me. The signature
does not match
the six foot owner,

hand on the stick shift,
name conjuring a deer
in a maturing wood.

Read aloud,
it does not even turn a head
as it escapes into the crosswalk
through a cracked window,

leaving us to ride in silence -
the driver, unchained to the autograph
crammed in his pocket,

the passenger, rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.




v. 5 adjusted S. 2, which further adjusted the orderings of other stanzas, though much of the information is the same


nickname

As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
And there it is
framed in leather;

not the nickname
I have come to identify
with his six foot frame,

the way a flute flutters in his hand.
On that piece of Pennsylvania plastic
sits a first name below a photograph,

and we have never been introduced.
An arm length away,
the ink curves like a contract,

closed and buried in a wallet.
The first name, spoken,
addresses no one in the car,

escaping the silence
we share at the crosswalk -
the driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and a passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.




V. 4 attempting to address enjambment issues/ cohesion. new line breaks.




As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
The scrawl below the photograph
on that piece of Pennsylvania plastic

curves in ink like a contract
closed and buried in a wallet.
The first name

no longer captures his six foot frame,
the way a flute flutters in his hand.
Spoken, it addresses no one in the car,

escaping the silence
we share at the crosswalk -
the driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and a passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.







V. 3 cut down on many of the images

nickname

As Buck drives us to practice,
my thoughts turn to the signature
bound to his license.

On that piece of Pennsylvania
plastic, another identity curves
in ink like a contract

left in a closed and buried
wallet. The first name
no longer captures

his six foot frame, the way
a flute flutters in his hand.
Saying it aloud

addresses no one in the car;
it only escapes
in the silence shared by driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.


V. 2
removed S. 1
added "his first" to new S. 1
penultimate stanza: switched "unscathed" to "unchained"

nickname

Perhaps his first name
could not capture how his full,
six foot five physique

could navigate the channels
of a silver plated flute.
So when Buck drives me to his concert,

my thoughts turn to the signature
bound to his license.
Another identity curves

in ink like a contract
left in a closed
and buried wallet, forgotten.

His wrists, unchained
to the likeness
stashed in his pocket,

draw me to my arms
where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.




V. 1

At some point,
"Frank" no longer fit
his six foot frame.

Perhaps the name
could not capture his size,
the glasses, circled

around his nose, or how his breath
navigates a silver plated flute.

So when Buck
drives me to a concert,
my thoughts turn to the signature

bound to his license,
where another identity
curves in ink like a contract

left on a table in a locked
and buried room, forgotten.

His wrists, unscathed
above a steering wheel,
draw me to my arms

where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.