Revisionist Poetry – “Rust, Roses, and a Little Static” (Speakeasy vibes) – Floral Gramophone, v.4

Note: Please imagine Tom Waits hunched over a decrepit upright piano; the room is smoky and beer infused; the crowd is long passed drunk and their raucous chatter adds a background sound to the music, like a room full of snores.

There’s a flower in the ditch by the rail yard fence,
wearin’ a horn for a hat and the sun for a bruise,
all curled up like a pocket prayer
some saint forgot to lose.

It don’t sing sweet, no sir,
it wheezes and glows,
like a love song drowned in a rain barrel,
like trouble in Sunday clothes.

And the bees come around like small-time thieves,
and the wind plays cards with the grass,
while that blossom stands there listenin’
to the whole damn world go past.

It’s got that old wired-up magic,
that back-alley kind of grace,
the sort of thing that looks half-dead
until it stares you in the face.

Then you know —
you know it ain’t just petals,
ain’t just dirt,
ain’t just the morning showing off.
It’s the kind of little miracle
that makes a busted heart believe
the dark can still be soft.