well there's an old Illinois cornfield that the Piasa calls home
where a Flanagan named Pontiac lives too
in the backseat of a Cadillac where the vines overgrown
have hidden his haven from view
enough corn to feed Cairo and crow to feed Cable
enough water to keep Willow in tears
he could drink half of Champaign right under the table
talk Cicero clean up to its ears

he hunted the medians for mirrors and hubcaps
that he'd nail to a sassafras tree
and he kept his reflections in a piece of old burlap
but he never left one you could see
and the first time I saw him he stood in the mirror
I must have been just about three
it was all so obscure but it all got much clearer
that his face was where my face should be

sometimes I used his eyes or he used mine for staring
we could lie through the other one's teeth
it was not so much sharing as just being or wearing
the way a knife might sometimes wear a sheath
and the knife had a dish but the dish done got broken
when it met with a demitasse spoon
and the spoon shoveled sugar till the last word was spoken
it just burst like a big red balloon

it was moonshine on Mondays on Sundays just water
and he once named me Saturday's prince
and he fed me on fodder that he'd saved for the daughter
that he'd fathered but had never seen since
and he once fell in love with a girl from St. Louis
whose mother had christened her Nell
and we went to their wedding but nobody knew us
so we just took turns ringing her bell