Sometimes, even good old music isn’t enough. 


On music highway
from Bristol to Nashville, ghosts
of what once traveled. 


And then, music again. Gospel bluegrass
snatched from the air
through my cracked car window.

One of the only genres
to be named after a band,
Bill Monroe and his crew croon and pick
to the sounds of church, reminding me
of where exactly I came from–beloved
despite the things (it’s okay),
they just don’t work anymore.