Poem: Why Uncle Moe Played The Washboard On The Block When He Had Health Problems

A poem from my upcoming collected works manuscript

Photo by Blind Rhino Media on Unsplash

Is it the silences between descriptive verbs?
Is it the pattern(or sound)? Repetitions made new?
the sight from his pitch beyond notes and figures
of his delta-to-the-north-hill sorrow songs?
Is it the sliver branch order in ivory soap and metal
beyond blown blue-black scales…