There was the day in Tower Records
in South Philly, the trip to the shore
on a late winter afternoon, and the time
I let go in a car with a song that wasn’t mine.
They’re part of the little hell
I carry with me; reminders of my deep
and lasting inadequacies.
Sometimes I pretend they’re not there.
Mostly, it hurts to be human.
The Word Rummager 