(An epitaph)

I burned yet another set of tickets.
This is becoming a habit.
Hope Springs eternal?
Apparently the 45 minutes into Boston, when the trains aren’t working, and parking is a bitch, is just too much.
At least I’m supporting the band, though I know they’d rather have an audience.

It’s maddening.

I don’t want to leave him, although he’s plenty old enough.
The fears. The what ifs.
What if he needed us?
This sometimes feels like drowning.

I bought him a ticket this time, hoping
But he didn’t want to go,
I’m not about to make him,
I don’t really want to go on my own.

Why does it seem to take a trip that takes on quasi religious significance to get me out of my house?
And why is it so fucking hard to extract myself from my life 
When I am proximal to it?

What am I doing wrong?
Why is this so hard?
Is there a medicine that could fix it?

Forget Boston.
What’s going on at the church down the street?
Sarah McQuaid is doing a benefit for CASA next week?
I’m there.
Sean Carey’s coming to fucking Natick? (Really?) Got it. Totally doable.
How about the open mics? 
I abandoned them after a few disastrous performances,
But I hear they have a piano now.
And it’s in tune.
And what is the Villa trying to get going?

I guess I’m trying start where I am.
It’s a good way to begin.