Come pick me up, he sang,
there in the dark, the Heaven-beckoning
light in our eyes, and that very first
time I heard him I knew the words
before he even exhaled them.
Maybe Adams and I share notebooks
on another plain. Or maybe
imaginary confessors break
their vows of silence, instructing angels
to whisper our oh-m-m-m-m-baby misdeeds
and wishful, blissful transgressions
to a few indiscreet dreaming disseminators
of the confessional arts.
I swear, more than once I’ve
professed to you in my sleep:
I wish you’d make up my bed
So I could make up my mind
Try it for sleeping instead
Maybe you’ll rest sometime
I wish I could….
And then I roll over, alone,
my respirations a wheezing harmonica
resolving in a long G major chord.
Oh, I wish I could…
I wish you would…
With Poem No. 4 in my quest for producing a poem a day in April, I fly wing-to-wing with the terrific American songwriter, Ryan Adams. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve played his Carnegie Hall recording of “Come Pick Me Up” (Copyright 2000). Sometimes even on my iPhone/iPod. More often, though, we jam in my head and go all creatively symbiotic in the dark of night. Tough I “confess” (allegedly) a lot in my poetry and stories, I’d never dare trying to write a song. Oh, though, how I wish I could!