Elliott man you played a fine guitar

Plainclothes Man


Take your curled strumming fingers,
nails chewed off ,
and pluck the strings of right now.

Turn it into a melody for me.

Sing to me the songs of tonight’s wet streets,
sing to me their mean, dirty chorus.

You grip your twisted bed sheets,
your stained coffee table,
your empty bottles,
your stupid mistakes,

you mold them into a symphony,
frail voice quivering
against the soft earthquakes of your words.

You lower your eyelids,
but you carry the disaster
time and time again.

Usually until the end.

Help me gather my neglected, nameless thoughts
that persist, that throb in sync with my breath.
Lend me your pen and I’ll number them.

Help me sweep the spider webs and dust
from the far, lonely place
where I once buried my dissonant chords.
Thanks for the roses,
I’ll bring them with me.

And thanks for the lingering lines you wrote
to soothe even the pain of your leave;

“I’m never gonna know you now,
but I’m gonna love you anyhow.”