On a gray morning in October,
I am alone in the truck.
I'm going to work for somebody else.
I would rather be writing,
hearing a harpist play
Tabhair Dom Do Lámh.
Alone again in the delivery van
sometimes I scream
I hate working here!
It doesn't really help
but it exhausts the thought
and purges it.
When my head is cleared of anger and gloom,
I hear the bodhran and the pipes.
I can listen to myself spill what I see and feel.
Words rattle around in my skull.
Where do they come from?
Whiskey soaked, half-eaten brain cells perhaps?
I remember a few of the better phrases.
Will the lost ones ever come back?
I would place a cloak on the shoulders
of a prodigal utterance,
put a ring on it's finger-o
and a wreath of umlauts on it's head.
If the verse came back
I would whisper,
Give me your hand.
I would forgive it for going astray.
I have no right to judge wanderers.
A roving string of gabble is welcome and wound here.