Listen, she said. Quiet, please.
I hear crickets in the wind.
I don’t, but I trust her ears.
They’re young and haven’t
suffered crash cymbals, snares,
sub-octaves, sudden death
following a half-mile skid.
I cried real tears for rock and roll.
Nothing good ever came of it.
You have to sacrifice something—
but what? The anxiety of not knowing
keeps her up at night, but think of
the freedom there, the not knowing,
that stillness of mind.
You have to try something.
There are gentle horses for ladies
to ride. For men there is a dark abysm
of wanting: whiskey, better weather,
younger women, anything
but the end of this
a joke too troubling
to be funny.