I’ve been chosen
to write some
******* essay
for a national poetry magazine,
i’ve called everyone i know
to tell them the news
    to talk about what i
should say,
nobody answered__
so here i am
alone, listening to old      dusty      records
typing on a broken machine
and oddly thinking of
    guitars, under the sea
    trying to play music;
it is sad and good and quiet
and i am alone drowning with it,

i need another glass of wine
i walk to the fridge and open it
    for a bottle uncorked earlier
and close it
along with this subject.