And the wife says to me,
“Ronnie, why do you let it all make you so blue?”
Well, when I recently decided to become an old man
my blues just drifted off at a loss for words and feelings.
The addictions, the loyal, life-giving addictions are still here,
like pallbearers, until the final shovel of dirt.

I met an angel at the market.
What kind of flour? she wanted to know,
is best for homemade pie crust?
I answered her questions. I offered advice.
I felt lust. I felt love. Everything fell into place.
We talked pie for an hour.
In the end, she said she didn’t understand
what was happening. Feelings like love,
the real kind, that stay with you, get into your blood
with transformative power, need time. But, we felt it.
Right there in the baking aisle we were transformed,
she said, “if love is fire, we must be wood.”

I’ve always been a disaster for women.
To be fair, it was never their fault.
The chaos was all mine.
Caught up in the mysterious, irresistible pull of the missing rib,
love became my dragon. I left track marks everywhere.
Love is a drug. Oh Roxy Music! Love is the drug I’m thinking of.
Now I am an old junkie basking in survival and memories.
The blues are mementos, a collection of thimbles.
The holes in my skin are real.
The addictions are my amulets against misery.
The addictions are my magical charms.