Jefferson Reilly sits on the loading dock,
currogated metal cold through his jeans,
scribbling syllables across the back of a postcard
in failing ink from his manager's pen,
struggling to capture just what it is
hes sure he doesn't mean.

Jefferson Reilly lets out a long, low moan,
buries his face in his hands,
smudges his cheek with a smear of blue
and listens to the traffic slouching by –
a rumble parade of Chevys and Suburus
each piloted by a soul whose fractured mind
is faraway lost on distant things.

Jefferson Reilly thinks catamaran, and cannonball,
he thinks daffodil and diplodocus and Duran Duran,
he thinks everyone and everywhere and everything,
he thinks failure and falter and philosopy –
and scratches out the last with a curse and a smile.

Jefferson Reilly sits, purses his lips,
scratches his chin, clucks his tongue,
lets loose a sigh that rattles his ribs,
shakes his head to release his thoughts,
closes his eyes, and starts to write.