Empty Arms
When Merle and I start drinking—
“The Hag” crooning on the stereo
while I sing along with the band—
his loneliest chorus just adds to the ache
of the emptiest arms in the world.
Loneliness sticks like an old LP
where there’s no going forward, no going
back, and all that remains are another’s
sweet pillow and a number that grows
harder to call by the day.
We’ve made of old country blues
a religion of loss and regret. A couple
coyotes, we howl at the moon sad
songs of longing, though the moon’s for lovers,
not losers who’ve lost what they held.
Day after day the scratchy whirl of my old
vinyl friend makes the best of a cold, hard world.
So many sad songs topped off with cheap liquor,
yet life never spins back to that fateful groove
where hope sang harmony with love.
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