MOG

Okay, another poem vaguely inspired by music. I'm not sure how good it is, since I can't separate if from hearing the Long Winters.

Joliet's under the rain but you're stuck there approaching Division. two lanes of intermittant traffic and you're stopped on the side. You exit, lie face down on the pavement, swearing you won't budge, and you mean it this time.

He brings the bow back toward his chest, pointed toward the organ inside him and behind him. he repeats the notes, underscoring the mood of the crowd and thinks of the organ inside him and behind him, the organ, and the organist, the organ player.

Good afternoon Washington Island, I'm returning your daughter, she couldn't even get off the bus.