What can it mean when early morning he
taps open dating app while asking where
can my sweet pea, my home country be?
The rest’s me pretending or wishing I cared

What does it say when he wakes up worried
about a role he never meant to play,
and God he begs, morn’ motions unhurried,
for permission to quit work but not pay?

A man near fifty minus some someone
who needs him alive is driftwood and foam
slow scraping bare beach beneath northern sun.
He can be or just not, this soul with no home.

Is it sad and lonely or easy and free?
All manner of things well shall be,
caught up in the arms of our loving God,
we daydreams who through space-time plod.

And so our hero, for focus makes a star,
Evaporates, like woman stewing fish
in Hiroshima, lucky to be not far
from swollen center of death our wish.
Our only excuse and sole salvation is
that never we were. Each iteration is
another rise and shine morning glory
another tuck you in bedtime story.

Author: We don’t remember
Choreographer: Bartleby Willard
Prima Ballerina: Amble Whistletown
Copyright: Andy Watson