I went to the practice space. It was cold.
There's always a set of older kids
who know more, can do better. I left
after four hours with a swollen throat*.
(In Connecticut, on New Year's Day,
the wind, blowing through a bathroom window.)
At home, also, it's cold. For dinner:
cheese, starch, and peas. Always eating
the same things, the messy room. A little
kid who can't take care of himself--
(In Los Angeles, so long ago, two yellow cars
at the end of an alleyway, and a red and black wall.)
Ah, ah. I feel bloated and thin, still,
blown up exactly like a soap bubble.
A shimmering surface, no substance to speak of.
--
*You listen and say you love the song,
but won't admit you hear the parts
that keep going wrong. I don't trust it.
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