Such a haze out there today.
We live in a smoke ring, it seems. 
I hear coughing on the sidewalk;
the roses are still so lovely. 

It seems a shame to stay inside,
but breathing’s a chore right now.
Everywhere people are coughing
but the rose out here are so lovely.

In spite of the coughing
kids are riding their bikes
up and down, up and down;
they are all coughing but acting 
with no care in the world;
the roses are nonetheless lovely. 

It’s getting toward sunset.
Seems a bit cooler. Even my throat
feels better than normal.
The roses remain so lovely.

The kids are still riding
and shouting and laughing 
whenever they aren’t coughing. 
Pretend these kids
have no reason to fear.
The roses remain so damned lovely.

I feel best when I take
three turns around the post
to secure the string
to the tuning peg. 
I’ve done fewer, I’ve done more,
but three turns feels to me
to be the best. Two 
makes me worry
I’ve not done enough and
I can’t play on stage
that way even when I 
do the old bend it back
and tuck it under
lock down trick — if you
don’t know what I’m talking about
count yourself lucky
to have never been slapdash
in your insecurity.
Four turns or more and you get
(or I do anyway) what looks more like
an anthill made of bronze
on the peg head — more likely
three or more of them — if you
don’t know what I’m talking about
count yourself lucky
to have never been this sloppy
in your insecurity.  Even when
I get it right I fret about it
being too perfect and 
I’m sure as hell that I missed something 
because doing it well
when everyone can see how it is
is terrifying — more like
a disbelief in my ever being good enough
manifesting as
tying up every loose end perfectly — if you
don’t know what I’m talking about
count yourself lucky 
to have never been
a musician, a writer,
a father, a son — count yourself
lucky to have had all the luck
some of us wish we had. 

It’s not a mistake
to reach into
the little you know

of how
a piano
works

to use
a metaphor about
the music

of a felt hammer on a wire
to describe
your own work

How by itself
each sounded note
rings enough for anyone

who hears
to speak of it 
as music

but to truly
let it be all
it could be

these words should
have been sung
by someone better

Then it swats you
across the face
You are the only one 

who could be the type
of better needed 
for your work to be perfect

so sighing
you bend back to it
before sleep and death

hoping one day you sing it
as it should be sung
It’s not a mistake to reach

for perfection past the limit
of your own grasp of the song
It’s not a mistake to try

Here’s to
the follow-up

The one-hit wonder’s
second release from
the same pocket
that held the first

The one that sounded
enough like the hit
to garner some attention

but not enough
to be called a hit

The one that years later
is recalled by a friend
at a party after the horde
of guests has gone and 
only the diehard beloved
remain 

No one
knows the title
but when
the friend starts to sing it

someone else goes
OH YEAH — whatever
happened to those guys

You look around a room
where no one knows the answer
but everyone’s grabbing
their phones and pretty soon

you all know the title
and you can move on

It reminds you
that you were seventeen 
and knew every song
on the radio from just one
note and you were
you at the utmost 
you thought you’d ever be

What happened

You know what happened

Looking around
you think it’s alright