when the lights are low

the mother, the child, the addict, the rock, the talker. and nothing works. and the sky is falling, and money doesn't grow on trees, and manners are taught. discipline is enforced, studies are mandatory and relationships fly. silver clinks together, hair gets wet and skin gets dry. warm welcomes and tearful songs. old lady clothes from that shop on the corner and yellow roses in february. center parts and candles that need lighting. give and take and none of the above, and those female musicians of course. pizza men, humming birds, chapped lips, holding hands and tight hugs. and here's the the effortless flow of the waves on the road. its all that really matters.

and just like oedipus, all the masks will eventually shatter to the ground, and all that will be left is a venerable scared meek blur hiding in the right hand corner of an empty matchbox.