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