poem in a crowded park (2)

I admire the song writers

happy to not be one of them

they’re always called on to repeat

relive, re-die, re-

fester under the light of an old version

I have the privilege of paper

tear it out of the notebooks

by the handful

crush it

send it away

impermanence

never to be seen again

I don’t have to defend

old, ugly ground

all disposable

the freedom

to fuck up royally

and start

again