He finds himself alone again, pig-drunk <br />on the third planet from the sun, his thought <br />maudlin, stale as umpteen years ago, <br />but fresher than the whisky in his mouth. <br />Through failure he finds solace in the funk <br />of 10 o’clock. The Nashville moon has not <br />yet touched him like the talons of a crow. <br />One with the evening, he will not fly south, <br />guitar strapped just behind the sprawling wings <br />of a misunderstood angel, cough and voice <br />inspired in the wake of careful choice. <br />He’ll linger in the drawling words he sings, <br />the hero of this blue and lonesome story <br />while love moves on, and basks in all the glory.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hank-2/
