The Kitchenette Motel
Sometimes an
Obsolete
Old bulb inside him
Flickers on
And dimly lights
His woozy thoughts
And thirst to write
A song.
Recall he's human,
That's to say, he
Thinks he
Still adheres,
Not just a washed-up
Singer, missing
Schedules to
Appear.
The stained and
Scribbled rhymes
Of scattered nonsense
On the floor,
Three gulps of Vodka,
Bring applause,
Adoring fans,
Encore.
Gene Bourne
06-01-14
.
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