I am listening to old Americana
and I’m getting so sleepy
I am letting the mice have their way
with the words and the images
of them getting so smart
they think the words mean nothing
They wander among the words
as if they can stand easy among them
As if they are unfamiliar with likelihood
As if they are used to getting caught
It is a shrug to them
The banjo circles among them
The slide guitar moseys up to them
and if there is a bass guitar commanding them
it will slap them down flat soon enough

I am listening to old Americana
from back when to hear it was to admit
you didn’t listen to newer music
No drum and bass or hard R & B
As if I were a relic myself
As if I took a plunge into flash and circumstance
and learned in a devil’s hurry about it
The mice knew already and I cleaned them out
The dust was settled around them and their little skulls
lay perfect and dry in their unfettered pelts
As perfect and dry as my own

I am listening to old Americana
No vibrating sounds or unfettered syllables
I’m just dozing off when a mouse scoots by
on the floor between the TV and the dozing cat
who startles up and becomes too late alert
This one has gotten away with something short of murder
Last of the breed perhaps
Last of his kind
I shrug off his escape and pet myself
Too much little pest little annoyance little dweller
in the dark between my slap and the cat’s paw
Like myself waiting to fall by the side of the trail
or get going and get gone with the music
Like myself waiting for
Whatever Comes Next