'n yer comin' wit me

(searching for a nova scotia cottage)

how could
hank snow
befriend elvis?
when he said brooklyn
presley thought borough,
frets still warm
amid polite inquiry,
perspiration and smoke.

followed by the invitation
to visit seabirds
cradling rainbow buoys
and buffering
borderless trees,
he knew
their common chorus—
an appalachia of birds—
often sang
with homesick voices.

have ya been ev’ryweir?
the king asking,
a’freyed his guitar
might become lonely
in the undercarriage
of the lanky greyhound
so far from nashville,
i gotta long way ta go,
hank yodelling back,
’n yer comin’ wit me.