Somehow I had forgotten about the concerti
     so tonight Molson and Sony take me to Brandenburg.
Kraft dinner at ten does not fill the void
     of this hungering time.

Cowboy had to get his send-off on an empty stomach
before rushing off into the sunset to spill my pain
in a room named for a man cut down at the age of 39.

Ten miles over on Canal Street. . .
"But officer, I'm late for the slam. . ."
How do I begin to explain the importance of poetry
     in the glare of flashing blue?

Ten years over on the whole room. . .
"I have been in the company of corpses. . ."
How do I begin to explain the importance of a decade
     past for me and millenium-greeting for them?

There it is, in the poetry
     commingling through the open microphone.
Their pain is real and all too present
     though they laugh their approval
     when I say that life is more than pain.
I repeat it to convince myself of the truth.

No need for speed limits on departure
     as this night calls me to the bedside of a friend
         fighting to make 39.
Tonight I say goodbye into blind eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I choose to believe that she sees God and finds peace
                   as I leave with her a piece of my heart.

No, tonight, even Bach only helps a little.