And of All the Boys, Your Best Bet Was Me
For Bob Bucko
There's only one button on the clock: sleep. How many times
do you have to punch it before it believes you? Of all you've taken,
the river's hurt you most. It lodged itself between your skull and skin
like the uneasy lull of a rolling tongue. You go through your eyes
to pull it out, but the river works you flat against the ground,
drops you to your knees and then your belly, ear in the dirt,
moving water up your arm until you see your hands sink and disappear.
I hear that lull. I hear it spin and burn and get stuck on a note
that sounds like you. Stuck on a note that sounds like you.
You throw microphones to the ground and the crowd jumps back.
It's not the volume. It's the feel of fingers gripping palms, the pop
of static in our throat when we see that, yes, this is how you say goodbye.
Ryan Werner runs the music/literature project Our Band Could Be Your Lit, where he writes short short stories based on songs submitted by writers and musicians from around the world.
This poem is posted with permission from the author.
Also available at: http://lumfa.webs.com/featuredpoem.htm