There is order in the fragments.
Cups in a late night diner
are melody, stacked chairs the staff.
Chaff comes, goes, we separate
not always wisely. I hold on
too long to the discards, the stones, and rocks.
Rocks, beautiful stones arranged
worn do not feed or satisfy.
I’m down in my cups
amongst the chaff, the wind blows.
The staff has gone home. We rock
back & forth, fragments of a song
God only knows.