Nothing good to be said
about now — Thursday morning,
ten o’clock.  Everyone’s
at work, street’s quiet,
cats are sleeping, I’m left
with The Work and the radio
or television, depending 
on what level of pain I’ll accept
to distract me.

I hate The Work as much as I love it,
as much as I hate and love myself.  Hate
its compulsory lion-taming ethic,
its dance-card-always-full expectation;
love its ultrachic disturbance
of the astral plane, its almost-human
face. When it beckons I am at once
comfortable in and imminently fearful
of rejection from its favor.

Thrusday, 10:00 AM.
Tired.  
Losing myself.  
Beginning
to become The Work,
puppet dancer
for a distant master,
unsure of the answer
to one Great Question:  

what should the singer do
when the band enters 
an instrumental break, when 
they extend, jam, go somewhere
the singer cannot follow;
what should the singer do
when it’s early and 
there’s nothing left 
to be sung?