This poem will not be
Depressing.

It won’t talk of the wasted
Energies of humanity
Pictured each day in the framed faces
Of bus windows.

No, it will not be slow,
Tedious, or boring.

It will not be another ode
To loneliness,

Nor will it reminisce
Missed chances, or the furtive
Glances from which we turn.

No, this poem will be about
A song that slowed time
To a near stop -

An acoustic guitar, the slow
Pluck of chords, no more than
Three notes at a time.

The soft padding of fingers dampening strings
To prevent sounds unneeded,
Extra sounds
That would only complicate.

No, this is about a single human voice
Singing nothing
But

Oh.

(my baby’s gone home)

- Jason Ward Boyte