She said: “I don’t read fiction,
It leads to romantic addiction,
And I’ve been staying clean the best I can.”
She added: “And please, don’t call me.”
Then she drove down to Raleigh
And hooked up with another man.

So, he refilled his old cup
In the bed of his pickup,
Engine running while he planned.
His teeth were burning from the friction
Of chewing his whole bottle of prescription
Medication, then he joined a blue-grass band.

He played the harp and the fiddle.
And he thought that he heard a little
Of her voice through the folky twang.
But it was a musical mirage
That bled through the door of the garage.
No band-mate heard her when she sang:

“You really fucked this up, honey,
And no amount of time, charm or money.
Could ever set it straight.”
And though her soft, simple diction
Accurately portrayed his affliction,
He still didn’t think that it was too late.


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