When your best friend lies dead
there’s no more singing the blues
they’re sung
or back seat drinking rum
it’s gone
slipped out the same backdoor
where it all began
the plans
aren’t plans
no more
’cause they’re buried
Just another felt hat
(but he wore sunglasses at the movies)
Just another redneck
(but he owned six pairs of identical purple jeans)
Just another flash in the American night
driving on the edge
so long
No more key
no more kingdom
no more starting over
Only odd sideway stares
at a long grey box
and one less voice.
We’re sung.
Jedediah Smith teaches literature, mythology, and whatever he can get away with at City College of San Francisco. His poetry has been published in California Quarterly, Ekphrastic Review, Mojave River Review, and The American Journal of Poetry. He also edited Parlando: Collected Poems of Ray Clark Dickson.
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