A Blue Grass Boy
He pulled his arm out of the shower, dry and sour, and his mandolin fingers, well with those he knows he's going nowhere, except where he turns the dial, west, south, down, and water, hot, and under, he'll lay, peppered in circles, well he'll cook, he'll fucking burn up, there, and what can you do, but hear him the next morning, boiled and sour, his God awful banjo heart tangy and plum, cooked in his chest with bath tub lungs, and his mother will cry, in violin strings of salty streams, from her eyes to her knees, wondering was it my fault, was it my fault, oh God, oh God, let me weep to death, if you exist, if you exist I will weep my soul into the floor, and you can have it, you can keep it.