the tune to his head

the tune to his head

was escaping so well

so many fingers         dangling

pointing          down towards his boots

so many fingers

so many fictions

so many phantoms

lots and lots of damn

fingers snapping

dropping        to the floor

wrapped in kleenex

put in a false bottom box

remember as a child

the absconding criminal

reframed as a skilled man

remember the man

his  artist

not even an actual singing

or a whistle

only a licking of the ghosts

that once pointed the way