Tell the sky I need it

It’s there, drumming while

I read something to myself

New songs after the hour

Nothing too candied or sour

Just the honest octave of a quiet street,

lampposts leaning like old friends,

moon yawning into its silver coat,

and me note-hearted,, word-minded,

trying to out-run the echo of yesterday’s missteps.

The coffee cools, ink winks,

and the night forgives in small, invisible ways.

There’s a freight train of thought I never boarded,

so I walk instead—skipping soul, unhurried hands—

learning that every Beat is a page

and every page is a place I’ve already lived

but never fully seen.

Sing for the sky I need

need its whatever color, its bruise, warning, its whisper—

need it like unspoken incantation 

from the place of a musician 

finally willing to play.