I often wonder about the effortless songs
we write while we're sleeping alone.
I'm not trying to say that it's easy,
just that the melodies are always so strong,
the chords so even and clean, as to resemble
the beautiful rooms in those formidable
19th century buildings which catch and hold
the resplendent afternoon sun on their roofs
of carefully rusticated stone.
The thing is, although these old structures
are still in great shape, we know we could never
live inside them, because they don't contain
a stick of furniture. It's usually at this point,
that we begrudgingly realize: we're going
to have to leave the house. We must
abandon that living room, which is, after all,
empty of everything (save that sturdy piano
which holds all the family photos). But
we don't actually need to go outside to do it,
we just need to start reading a lot;
then, we need to write a bit; switching
the order here, tweaking the vowel sounds
there, maybe sipping a little more hot coffee
from the newly visible and always-full mug
at the gradually solidifying kitchen
table and chair, gesticulating and nodding
and believing our current living situation
could have been otherwise.
