The Piano Has Been Drinking in Tom Waits’ Throat

Highway headlights reflect off wet pavement. Hear the grunt and grind in a Mack truck engine. Hear the clutch in his voice crack like plates shattered, like crushed glass trying to sing. It’s not that the piano has been drinking bourbon-pumpkin pies.

We’ve been drinking and look like doors hanging from rusty hinges, like unraveled piano wire. Must be clouds circling his larynx. Dark clouds drift with thunder. Don’t turn him off. It’s always 2am in Tom Waits’ voice. My body is leaning on Edward Hopper’s shoulder

watching him sketch “Nighthawks.” I’m sitting at the diner sobering up, telling stories to my coffee, watching myself spiral inside the rim. My fingers grip the handle. I will come face to face with the mirror that has been whispering about my character.