Tick, Tick, Tick

Soft and complacent

our youth in denial

What evil disguises

the past has on file

 

Wishing and hoping

a smokescreen at best

Masking our fear

while fouling our nest

 

The seeds of our history

whose names have been damned

And mocked until cancelled

our heritage banned

 

In near distant cauldrons

a pot stirs and boils

Awaiting our downfall

—and all we’ve despoiled

 

(The New Room: November, 2023)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something For Gregg

I was somewhere deep in Kansas

on a Triumph 69’

When your song came on the jukebox

and hit me from behind

I was headed for a bad place

and cared for nothing much

When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’

my heart and soul were struck

Entranced, your lyrics captured me

like nothing had before

When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’

I headed for the door

But something made me turn around

and grab another dime

Ten more times in that diner’s booth,

still lost within your rhyme

Now back inside the bus station

and sleeping on the bench

I scratch your words into the wood,

last dollar gone and spent

My bike outside against the wall,

the kickstand was long gone

And out of gas, my hopes were dashed…

that unrelenting song

Waking up at ten unsettled,

across the street I pushed

The sign said Triumph-BSA,

the owner Mister Cush

He asked, “What’s with your motor,”

I said “Nothing—out of gas

“But worse I’m out of money,

can I sell the bike for cash?

“Would you please just buy my Triumph,

I know it’s old and worn

“It got me here through seven states,

runs great both cold and warm”

“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,

on that can we agree?”

We walked back up inside his shop,

three bills he handed me

I thought about a bus ride home,

my thumb looked more in line

Facing East on old route 50,

my heart in deep decline

The first big rig that came along

was bound for York Pa.

The driver said “If you like dogs,

I’ll take you on your way”

In York I caught a fast ride out,

two ‘dodgers’ going North

And got back home with hat in hand,

your song to guide me forth

Two years then passed, I met my wife,

four more and our first child

We named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’

her dad back from the wilds

Now forty years have come and gone,

my beard and hair both gray

I owe you Gregg, and always will,

your song, her name—that day

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

 

For Gregg Allman

I sent this to Gregg in May, 2017.  It’s on his website.

We spent two days together in Richmond Virginia in

a blizzard in 1982.