I sit on the toilet and wonder what rhythms
might rise up from these pipes to claim me. Left eye
whipping around a corner in her Mitsubishi.
Patsy Cline each time I board a plane. Jim Morrison
in the bath. Jimi in bed. Janis on the floor by the bathroom.
My feet on cold tile. I’m older than my soundtrack,
than all the good music of love and heartbreak,
than idealism. Overdosed on realism
and stumbling towards old age,
worries about dementia and an enlarged
prostate. They died so young. Young
and knowing, and pretty.