Making you a mixtape is where I've been
On the floor of my room, surrounded by
Stacks of songs, clutter of paper piles,
No more misanthrope than a child playing blocks.
I've read no books, made up no new stories,
I've even ignored my poems
Which ring out occasionally like a lover
Whose late night phone call tries to salvage
A few hours of life too short for loneliness.
