How the Tune Goes

I smell rain, and it’s early September.
This is magic. The sky is blue mostly,

with puffs of white at certain intervals.
But a patch of dark hovers right

to my right. And a strong wind is dipping
into this little outdoor back pocket

of the coffee shop. Puffing on a cigar,
a stranger points out a faintly forming

rainbow. It’s flawless. We can see all seven
colors and we comment on the spectacle.

‘You don’t see that very often,’ he says and
this sounds like wisdom. What else to do but
grin like a dummy and echo his thoughts.


money on the birthday, sex on the birthday,
cake for my birthday, a black out for your birthday.

guilt gives me nothing; I gotta martyr it all, the saints
say so. crying on this birthday, it’s my party, you know

how the tune goes.


I nearly broke down when the gas station guy called me friend.
I wasn’t aware I had any left.


I’m getting impatient with this healing hand

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