On their way from NYC to Montana
FIGHT THE VOICES
Today I watched a man
try to swat the flies in his head—
those voices too small to separate
Yet too large to ignore. The static
between radio stations, the pop
of bacon grease in the pan.
He spun and hollered, cursed
and cajoled—a drunken maestro
swarmed by unruly notes.
I didn’t know him
but I recognized him.
