There’s jazz in the other room
and dishes in the sink.
He’s cleared off the table,
a little more room to think

about snowmen in the desert
and why they wound up there.
Where he never feels home or warm
even with the summer’s stare.

Mind’s unchained.
Put it all down.
Ease the pain.
Soak it in.
Now’s the time.
The end begins.

He’s not sure he belongs here,
spends some time with the trees.
Wednesday morning phone calls
that bring him to his knees.

Now he’s back at the table
with music in his ears.
The voice beyond the music
says, ‘don’t listen to your fears.’

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