When you’re hungry for love,
music— even in a minor key,
feeds you like a Jewish mother.
When Monarchs have left for Mexico
and Canada Geese are nowhere to be seen,
it’s time to ax the blue iceberg
lodged in your superior vena cava.
When SAD is declared an epidemic
and everyone is stuck at the wrong end
of an overused bathroom plunger,
the right syncopated chord
can get you tap dancing like Bo Jamgles.
When God doesn’t get up and dance
to the fire and brimstone
of the rotating Leslie on a Hammond B3,
you better be ready to hack your way
through the frozen tundra lodged within.
This is it.
There’s no turning back.