Composting a Hymn

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.