Your music sounds like roadkill,
I told you when we first met.
Perhaps you didn’t hear me or were a little offended,
because you got quiet.
But I figured this was an okay thing to say
because you had asked me, quite blankly,
if I had ever installed dry wall and if
I had enjoyed inhaling and then coughing up the particles.
I told you No, with all the dignity I could muster,
but was thinking Dear god, that sounds amazing
and I want to.
What I meant, though, was
it’s the music of the real, and
that can be jarring sometimes
and cause for pause – like seeing matted fur
outside your car window.
Roadkill isn’t like other rubbish; you can’t
just pick it up and throw it away
or use a bottle when your ashtray gets full.
There is a particular resilience to roadkill,
even after the damage has been done.
I don’t know what the roadkill is like
over in New York where you are
learning to dance quietly
like the end of a fishing pole,
where you are learning about how small
a house can be, and how to leave the few
safe places you have known.
Perhaps there are more squirrels,
less dogs, more birds, or some big elk.
But I think if you make music like
the flash of fur and red through a window
then the cruelty of heavy things
won’t ever make you frail.