Radio: a guitar, words,
talk, play. The coffee
is rich and
I’m in crappy morning clothes;
I am listening to the radio.
I’m tired already and no one
gives a damn but me.

Suppose I die this morning,
this week. The sun’s
not up yet; could be today,
could be tomorrow or one day
after. I vote for a day yet to come
with some excellent guitar playing
and words, better than these,
maybe better coffee if it is possible.
I am damn sick of my life,
everyone is sick of my life.

Still, I am going to live at least
until the song changes
and I shake this off. Somewhere
it is sunrise over the earth
and I would like another cup
of coffee and maybe pick up
my own guitar and stretch my fingers
to its strings and see what comes.
I will not die sick of this life;
no one gets to be sick of it except me
and I want to leave them murmuring
about what song I was playing
when I gave up and went into the sunlight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T