Friday 3 am

Too troubled to speak he grabbed pen and paper — this
in the days before nearly everything everyone was connected interlocked
chained together in the air the ether — and let words flow
words of angst pain rage from the tips of his fingers onto the page

Before Alexa and Siri were with a spoken word available at beck and call
to summon a musical mood or answer a nagging query
the words said there’s nothing to be said that hasn't been said
no matter what you've read original thought is dead

And just when he thought it doesn't pay to think you might as well drink
he realized that’s stinking thinking
old friends tend to think you’re off the deep end don’t give it any mind
listen to the song playing in the background a Spanish Harlem reprise

Truth and lies in the same few lines reminding that What I'll Never Be
are swear words that tear at the fabric of the soul
minds play tricks kick bite thoughts come willy nilly knocking you silly
mildly funny in a perverse sort of way daylight approaches guilt floods back

In haunted scenes moments before morning John Hartford’s ghost with
derby banjo poignant lament says an alter ego is just a ruse
an excuse to escape responsibility for indifference pain angst inflicted
but take some small comfort in regret it says at least you have a conscience