there’s a blue pilot light
under the stove
and there’s a manchild staring at it
from his spot on the floor

he thinks his own fire’s more golden
than that sapphire
he wonders which glows
hotter

jealous of the blue light’s utility
he imagines blowing it out
living on cold suppers
starving to keep his own spark alive

(or at least unique) within these walls
not paying the bills until
they come to shut it off
and then he’ll shine

the brighter
for sitting in the dark
cold and hungry
this is what he’s been taught

and this is why he’s lying there
with a growl in his center
another boy
not ready to be a man

staring at a gaslight
pilled out and drunk on his kitchen floor
convinced his own inner light
is all he needs to survive

we move among the cities

there are highways to lead us
cars to sleep in
couches and hostels and coffee shops
and there’s
gotta be some internet around here
somewhere

one of them has to be
a place that isn’t
like any other

ghosting our way
from north to south
east to west and back
spirits walking alone
in dirty backpacks

we used to be
other people
we will be
other people
again

if we can be
elsewhere
soon enough

…starring, stage left,
a bass — telling its stories
through a couple of fingers.
Someone laying pipe
for the flow to follow.
The same someone popping the welds on it
when the flow’s gotta get free.

When Shuggie Otis comes on
with an invite to Sparkle City,
that bass shakes me deep and simple:
a friendly hand opening a door,
shuffling me along to comfort,
giving a shout to someone unseen
to break out sweet tea and a good meal,
makes me agree that
"there is no offer
I would refuse…"

It’s not much —
it’s everything.

So give me
that rock steady bottom
any Sunday, because that’s church
softer than any pew,
keeping me warm on an ember
made of Bible pages.

This morning in particular,
it’s a big pillow
for a sad head
and the groove it cuts
holds me like a mother
I never had.