Nothing Anyway

The way you might have felt. What you thought. I grin and turn the other cheek, really, you can't trust anyone. Or anything. Consider a single crow, pecking the eyes from a road-kill possum, a certain transference, you could be him, but you'd never swear like that, up against the pressing wind of passing cars. Nothing prepares you for the rodeo, one more bull to ride, chinch up, reach for the stars, there's always the corner of the bottle, a place you can hide. It's not often that you feel this pain, a deep retching thing that stirs you, a guitar solo with harmonics. You play along. The radio fails, cuts out, Elvis Costello, Greg Brown, nothing makes any sense. I grant it's late, my seeds are all sown, still, I see something, I miss being broken, a bonfire, a quiet flame. It's god's hand, what happens. The language is strange, but I can make sense from anything. Trust me. Just the other day, the sunset from my window, I wished all my pain away, something changed, I felt better. By morning the fog had lifted, all dressed in shimmering things. Either an accordion or a saxophone in the background. Keeping time. Nothing you could see, something unspoken. Come on up to the house. A base blues line. Forever lost. Tom Rush. Listen.

Tom

A solo piano in the dark, harmonics, listen closely.