poetic license…


but it’s Clint Black on the radio.
I haven’t done that in a long time,
listened to some damn sad
sappy song about nothing,
because that ain’t how it is.

In a more truthful moment
of confession; like one of those
kissing booths at the county fair;
the words come easily,
but we all know that never happens,
instead the choking numb tongue
that can’t be controlled.

so in your mind is the perfect
speech, the right words,
and you’re confident of purpose.
but that never happens,
not when face to face
over coffee & cigarettes.

Instead just stammer away.
Ask me a million times if
you’re being neurotic,
that’s okay by me. I
know it means you trust me
to tell you the oven’s
been turned off, or
the space heater unplugged.

When there is nothing left to
“get” around to,
likely sources of frustration
are conquered by serenity,
and something else pushes
Whatever the words you wanted
to say are just details,
and you don’t know what
you said in it’s place.

Nothing guaranteed, nor
blame assigned; it’s just
how these things go.
Dance, or whatever you’d care
to call it,
along the string, right
down the path. Whatever
comes next will just have to get here
in its own sweet fucking time.

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