song of the silent

I think I’m gonna write a song
this morning – the flowers
made me think so.
And the exit signs on the highway,
counting down to
thirty-one, twenty-five, eighteen
bottles of beer or
dreams of blue, eyes
watching for a sign,
lookin for some treble.
You haven’t seen her, have you?
She likes to hide between the bushes
on strawberry Sundays,
but I walked all the rows
and found just this – two empty pails and a
note: Your sax is out of tune,
signed, Roxanne,
with a flourish on the R.
Well, I hoped it’d be a good day,
the sort of day that pulls everyone outside, the
Sun a kind of tug-boat. Now
I see it, and I don’t,
the clouds dancing as they do.