New Poem, Old Topic

I put a quarter in the Wurlitzer.
He pushed
three buttons
and the thing began to whirl.
I asked for him
to play me
his music,
But she was on every track.

He held my hand,
with parted lips,
speaking an unfamiliar language.
Lost in the translations,
I kept hearing her name.

He promised the next picks wouldn’t be so sad,
But “it don’t mean nothing at all.”
The first choices
Were not
For me.

He’s damaged,
by someone else’s hands.
Mine are expected to cradle, croon and console;
soothe and sing to sleep a dissonant heart;
strap on the defibrillator,
stand back,
and wait
for rhythms made for me.

A Good Indicator That the Tides are Turning

Add this to my list of big news events that I’ve missed while in my little writer mode.

Kay Ryan, a poet compared to the likes of Emily Dickinson and (my personal fave) A.R. Ammons, has been named Poet Laureate. Woohoo!