Pen Pal

Keeper of my mind’s musings,

of where I’ve walked and talked,

a pal who remains in my cargo pocket

eager for morsels of daily delicacies,

a mischievous footnote to an observation,

the conversation taking place across the room.

We travel together

to the park in West Virginia where I

landed ass-first after a sick jumper,

into that Lexington newsroom

where we’ll slack off imaginatively,

or to that house up Collins Creek

where Whitney's words ruined June.

And when my head is driving

nails into my mind,

I will drop my current duty,

open up to my friend in any venue

and release my worries into

his prison pages.

Lidded box I pack with pride,

stocked with smiles, shortcomings, and silhouettes

of this packrat’s parceled personality.

A quote from Rece Davis,

a quip from Ginger Waters,

a minute ode to the soothing Toby ballad,

a list that might become my next Yu-Gi-Oh! deck.

Between and around the words

are scribbles and pretty nothing bursts

the pen felt were needed,

or fellas and fools who need guitar assistance,

like Waylon’s cowboy rhythms—

room for Saturday nights,

the action of a game,

a nest of memories,

and a device that keeps hearts hopeful,

room for me to imagine

future number ones arriving at an agent’s studio,

songs so powerful and memorable,

that not even I—the man behind the moments—

have the slightest idea who will sing them.