Hank

He finds himself alone again, pig-drunk on the third planet from the sun, his thought maudlin, stale as umpteen years ago, but fresher than the whisky in his mouth. Through failure he finds solace in the funk of 10 o’clock. The Nashville moon has not yet touched him like the talons of a crow. One with the evening, he will not fly south, guitar strapped just behind the sprawling wings of a misunderstood angel, cough and voice inspired in the wake of careful choice. He’ll linger in the drawling words he sings, the hero of this blue and lonesome story while love moves on, and basks in all the glory.