On an auditorium stage, I am fucking up
guitar at Tom Petty’s reunion tour although
Tom Petty has been dead for just under high
five years and this room has collected
moths in nippled sconces like platinum drama
club trophies in what I think is my high school
before they tore it down the same year Tom
Petty died learning to fly
and these people keep looking at me
as I fumble through a song about waves
forgetting about that hurricane
leveling most all of this
non-town town with a ferocity only fabled
at the Baptist church a couple
miles east so after the E string
breaks and Tom cradles a fly
fallen dead from its grimekissed
light, he drops it in the mouth
of my guitar, as if some hum of
breaking will surely wake me up.