Composting a Hymn
In the half-baked pottery of Rickie’s mind
she knew she’d watched the kettle
too long for it to boil.
A survivor of Folk’s major scale
in farther time
she sprinted toward oblivion
though they’d never been introduced.
She lived by a fully-bloodied Creed
she adopted while listening to Buffy Sainte-Marie’d
humanity’s dividend, of the great debate
with only one issue re: habitation.
Her eastern appointment to western civilization
was uttered in distinct silence
for which she was to write the song.
But with the sensitivity of a dust jacket
the gravy of her situation
drew stock from a beef
with her publisher who confused
compensation with condemnation.
An old fashioned Chicagoan
with a has-been throne for a “Loop”
stirred, not shaken, but broken apart
she doubted she could give it a shot
without scattering lead vocals
to pieces by Mozart.
When came the time to face the music
on the face of it, she needed a drink
and fled to her favorite isobar
a place where everyone is treated equally
Susie was there, the one of the infamous date
She decided not to wake her for she was not dead
Instead, she ordered her unusual
A raspberry vodka martini
The bar-keep said “We’re out of vodka,
but how about a raspberry lime? Rickie.”
She left, rightly so,
and walked the streets, scoring a Hymn
“Silently”.
In 4/4 time
the first bar she entered was a rest
as were the rest of them.