First thing up: listening
to the new Nickel Creek,
listening to Lucinda, to
Diana Ross;

reading all my
distressing mail, all my
useless mail, all my
pointless mail;

sitting quietly,
making no noise at all
in case they or someone like them
comes back and knocks on my door —

listening
to someone unnamed and then
Tom Waits singing about
a house where nobody lives;

well, I’ve been there, Tom.
I’ve been there and as
a ghost
I’m still there.

I close my eyes and
disappear into someone’s
music but mercy, please;
I’m still there.

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