A Selfish Kind of Love Poem
My sister is a loyal person. Much more than me in many ways. When it comes to music she has a heart with endless capacity for the old and new. Her retention of rhythm, of lyrics holds no bounds.The quintessential fan John Prine deserves. She has kept all the classics and played them for me at apropos times –
never letting me forget
the sincerity of owning your past.
Here we are in a crooked piece of time.
I remember when I left my John Prine music behind
with a love I had certainly outgrown
drifting away on the sparkle
of so much
sound that turned
his music into a distant flicker -for years.
Oh, what a foolish ass I have been.
Angel from Montgomery still holds the promise
of memories I will never have
and triggers a remembering
that never quite leaves.
In those lyrics I heard the spirit of my son calling
although his papa was something to look at (my only edit).
Our beginning was in Montana.
Always, I will have a special love for the place
even though it tried to kill me
more than one time.
Everyone there is a cowboy (or a maverick) – whether they think so or not.
A solo flyer on his 46 Knucklehead he was his own kind of cowboy
a man who brought so much love to me
I had to let some go
into the breath of a new life still filling my heart.
He lured me with his gaze
while I was dancing in a Kalispell bar
address on a matchbook
one rose hand delivered – he captured my heart.
Today it occurred to me how damn easy it was to take that ride.
In the thick of our love ending – swallowed by my broken heart
I was rescued by a thought
“I can’t wait until I am an old woman when these things won’t matter anymore.”
I did not know how wrong I was
but does wrong really matter when saving a life?
A weary heart still feels an ending
when the breaking
pours everything that was ever left behind
out onto the table
and you don’t know what to do.
John, We hope you will stick around a little longer- we could use your insight right now.