do you follow rainbows to the end of the road
and pretend they end with a screech of the breaks
or perhaps you miss the train and convince yourself that
you were on the wrong platform or you were there just
waving someone goodbye
do you receive flowers from people you never loved
and your ‘thank you’ is the discorded key of a piano
in the middle of a concert
do you make someone cry and comforting them is a trembling hand
a surgeon never shows the world
do you etcetera your list of to do’s into a painted oblivion

I remember the spring of 79
as me and Bob Seger left for Katmandu

dad
a retired railwayman was befriending Feodor Dostoevsky
later I learned that his life had become a boat without paddles
an important word lost in translation

meanwhile my name
indigo painted
was hiding like Euripides in cave
oftentimes I'm checking myself for signs of rust
every morning God throws a silver coin in my hair
not keeping evidence of the bell gongs stuck in my ears