Sad Songs

I want to run her words
through a carwash, they are not dirty,
just stale, the way a classic corvette
needs a rinse occasionally, but never a re-paint.

Dinner together in a roadhouse,
the nasal song of a country boy
trapped in a ball-breaking melody.

I can’t hear her words,
she can’t hear mine…finally we’re communicating.

An owl in a hollow tree can hear the whole dark forest.
I imagine I am roosting in her throat,
listening, not to her mind or mine,
but Brailing my way around.
In those vocal folds, a little girl is weeping.
a mother belittles and scolds.

The server comes around. “How you’ll doing.”
She and the waitress look to me,
but I am still in the hollow of her throat
a space now witnessing
my own doleful litany of sad songs.

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