HEARING FROM PATSY

Except for now and then

Country music and I have not

Been of much use to each other

(Though I will admit there is

No better antidote for self-pity

Than standing alone at midnight

Singing “Everybody’s going out

And having fun.

I’m a fool for staying here

And having none.

I can’t believe it that she set me free;

Oh, lonesome me!”).

I know no good reason why the ghost

Of Patsy Cline should decide

To reside in my head today.

She is a frail spook, I’ll grant;

Died young, I think; a hard life

Leaving a name and some music

And many sad admirers behind.

Death has not been kind to her

I can tell this because she can remember

Just one line of all her songs:

“I fall to pieces.”

Her backup trio, for old times sake

Keep her company; they can recall

Even less. Just “Woa, woa, woa”

And then Patsy’s ghost mumbles what she means

To be the next line:

“Each night when I remember you?”

“Whenever stars shine in the blue?”

“Whatever I am trying to do?”

No use; the words are gone and so

We go back; I fall to pieces

Woa, woa, woa.

Tap it on the table; Dum (pause)

Dum dadadum (bababum)

Or whistle it softly on the platform

Surprising other passengers who

If they fall to pieces do it

Quietly  and without harmonic  backup.

I could, I suppose, call exorcists

Patsy and her backup would surely

Be no match for swooping Valkyries

Hollering down on them

But then, my mind would be filled

With large fierce women carrying spears.

Rest here, then, for a day

Falling to pieces until the night

Puts us back together.