The Tremendous Wait
By Tim Pozzi •
The mandolin plays,
a few strings to stay up close
because the night
hasn't the clever melody
to keep her warm.
Enshrined, encased
in the blues of him whom
was the cause of that pain,
the same the place the stain
is never going to come out.
Some short reasons,
a few for certain doubt.
All forgotten promises
and the flouting of convergence,
news isn't truth it seems.