f I could only fly
he sings,

serving up his marrow
like the hors d’oeuvres no one takes,

graciously enough
to ache in front of strangers,

to miss somebody openly
while guests just pivot and revolve

and sentence pretty verses to the ether,
oblivious to certain death.

You know,
sometimes I write happy songs

Sometimes.
Sometimes.

(For Blaze Foley)