Amen

Yes, an ash-absolved piano to my right; yes, a cheap coffee table in perfect leg-length, dense books abundant and the gray taste of hot tea on my tongue: I am alone. Here I sit before the well-worn throne of poverty’s wry wealth. Here I bow over the keyboard’s chattering sacrament, the shuffled alphabet’s silent song to chaos: after months of soul-suffocating misery, I am reborn. Give me your hand, friend, as I tread from the cobwebbed womb of staticity’s constriction. I will not look back.