His muse likes him slightly

out of tune: the gears won’t quit

drifting half a pitch in high revelry

or hitting bottom as the song must sit


down and sober out. The obsessed hours

fed by his old man’s boozy shadow,

fed by chaos that craves form--the power

of song turns pain into a fat sparrow,


unsteady in the open, but sure from branch to bough.

Focused now, he moons, tilted head,

off-key, croons about an unlucky deck.


The Nashville producer smirks, "Now

the song shines, yes, but you’re dead

if you sing...sounds like a train wreck."

Michael Graber

If you've any comments on his poem, Michael Graber would be pleased to hear from you.