by: John Grey

What to do about this creature?
break the window?
smash the mirror?
howl like a beast at the sight?
creaking door open,
cry your hurt louder,
cut away all the rest?
you’re dropping quarters in a juke box,
each song, hard or gooey,
open to interpretation, to edit—
ah, the melodies—
don’t we bury what we cannot use right now?
don’t we come back later, dig them up?