I’m often stuck inside my head. Traveling should theoretically provide clarity, but in practice, the hurt often compounds.
A poem for you, written from the loft of the coziest Airbnb cabin in Maine.
baby grand blues
there’s a little cabin
on the morgan bay
with a time-worn baby grand.
i once touched the keys,
unworthy of the honor.
the piano
was beyond
my understanding.
as were the tides
and their sliding schedule.
i felt them slip beneath my fingers
towards the sweet release of knowing.
i cried but the tides
could not return a time
when you belonged to me.
i cried but the tides
could not inure me
to the present.
the tides replied:
learn to love yourself
or at least to play the piano.
(01-OCT-2018 – Surry, Maine)
