It’s over.
The bank account is empty.
The tires are bald and flat.
A wheeze punctuates my breakfast In the cold gray of January morn.
The fullness is now lank.
The dog is asleep, hibernating.
The wealth has whittled way to penury,
Bit by bit
Morsel on the lapel
Brushed away in distraction.
I like this emptiness
This meanness.
Not much left to lose.
It is the rich tonal depth of a tube amp and Fender tele.
Hollow, bright, insouciant of itself.
I am that tone
At my best.
When the direction of the gods becomes me
A glowing conduit for electric movement
That takes
Me,
Us,
All,
Unaware and something happens,
Magic.
A joke.
A misguided fastball lifted over the fence
Or a career.
The start of the friendship with The Goddess I share in my life.
An incidental interaction
On the street
Gone like a trifle but In accordance with a greater design than mine.

Footsteps crunching in the snow
Such a lovely sound in twelve degree
Dry January hangover