WEIRDO FREE TIME

Calm and alone in a hidden
corner of the library I love
with perpetual romantics, L. Cohen
and grumpy Bukowski.
Inspired.
Grateful for the masters
leading me here.
Their scratchy voices.  Their world-weary souls.
I’m scratching down
some little bursts of language
and beat
And counter beat
Words excavated quietly
from the deep dirt
of what’s left
of this ancient brain
and heart.  So grateful
that both keep on ticking.
And for shiny things beneath the surface.
A hushed celebration
for whatever is
unearthed, cleaned off just enough,
and put down on paper.
Hiding here among these dusty volumes of verse
Ghosts of the Dewey decimals
marching around
row after row.

4.21.19
Easter