Lyrics rarely arrive
wearing a tuxedo.

They shuffle in
missing a shoe,
carrying somebody else’s umbrella,
insisting they belong
in the second verse.

Usually the first line
is wrong.

The second pretends to understand
the first.

The chorus
waits in another room
refusing to speak
until everyone stops trying
to impress it.

Some days
a song comes
like rain.

Other days
you search and search
one honest sentence
from eight hours
of decorative nonsense.

Rhyme
is not truth.

The useful lines
often arrive
after the brilliant ones
have embarrassed themselves
and gone home.

You write
to discover
which part of the world
has been quietly
trying to explain you.