By Townee (Devin Davis)

father converted his attic,
1 summer, from 2 rooms.

the blank-framed
ceiling, slanted at
a 45-degree angle;

that gray sheet of drywall i was made to hold,
as he hammered rain-shank nails--every inch-&-a-half
--all about the damn perimeter and up a coupled center.

12-year-old arms trembled. soon
gave out; and then, to have him say
what no amount of money can fix ...

heard it, just under his breath:
you are truly useless. dad asked,
how did your mother raise such a fag?

devin wayne davis first used townee as his penname 5 years ago, as he struggled to complete his ba in journalism/history at csus. davis has endeavored--through some 2, 000 poems--to craft himself; seeking guidance in those examples set by basho, rilke, cummings, roethke, and plath. davis works for the state of california; lives in an apartment, downtown, with a gifted korean woman, yoon-ah kim; he has produced two daughters, kaylah and lake davis; they care for three cats. davis is an amateur musician and songwriter; has twice hiked mt. whitney; served a term in the army, visiting germany, switzerland, and spain. his poetry is included in the sacramento anthology: 100 poems and poetry depth quarterly; pieces also appear at various on-line sites. davis writes because he is "ink."


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