I wasn’t going to post this, but was told yesterday that it is “publishable.”

 
She is not a musician
I am just a boy with hot chocolate
And a guitar, perpetually out of tune
Building an afternoon from forty-five seconds
Unlikely inspiration, all things considered.
Two candles supplied with fresh fuel
Renewed light from within, a guiding beam.

Tell me
How far Denver and Berkeley and Witchita?
And Tangier, are you forbidden?
I too have roamed the streets of Greenwich Village
Pick off decade upon decade, layer by layer
One Two Three Four Five (Six)
To find what the masters found
Feel what the brilliants felt
Wandered Chinatown and Harlem
Travelled to Boston
Spent nights on bitter Union Square park benches
And in the depths of The Tombs for insanity
(So says CNN)
To look back I see what they could not
A culture shaped by beautiful madness
Lost to its creators.

Underestimated futility to guide a trip towards the setting sun
To live and die and be reborn
To have the cosmos rumble at my feet
To feed a candle.

Thanks, Ruby. You know why.

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