listening to Naima
by John Coltrane
on a thirsty Thursday
somewhere between
where the swamp meets murder
and the designers pay my future bills.
it's dark,
and I am tired,
but I stay up just to write
and dream of dreams,
because I like being tired
and tomorrow is gonna be good
and gone before you know it.
great love is gone, too,
and Trump makes it hard
to read anything,
so it's just me and the couch,
this computer and sad jazz,
while sinking.