I’ve been trying to find the musein the forests on Maple Place
in the sea-foam of the Bayshore waves
or in jet-streamed blue skies
the only time I catch a glimpse
of that bitch is through
the orange prescription bottles
that paints these Jersey towns
in amber apathy
I drink with the winos on Broadway—
the old poets who have never written a word
who cast their lines and drink their drinks
waiting for dinner and for
I still have the fifty tickets
in a rubber-band
in the box beside my bed.
to look at it yet
but I know they’re there.
lift the cardboard lid
will the harmonies we echoed
paint the room in teenage angst?
of the bar crowds in North Centerville?
amplifiers make earthquakes beneath my feet?
bitter taste of a day-late-a-buck-short ?
open the damn thing and wince.
An old flannel torn at the elbow.
Wooden shards of a smashed
A broken pick.
it in the trash.
Damian Rucci is a writer and poet from New Jersey whose work has appeared in the Lehigh Valley Vanguard, Five 2 One Magazine,Yellow Chair Review, Beatdom, Eunoia Review and other journals. He is the author of the chapbook A Symphony of Crows and the host of the reading series Poetry in the Port.