How come

How come ice sits in the glass 
and don't melt despite 
there's no drink even left 
to make cold? It's like 

a rebuke that I drank the drink
of which I took hold too fast, 
chugged down and oh well.  
It's past. I guess. I won't frown
or hiss or mount grievances
in this town so way out beyond 
what I clearly contain to sustain 
with my song, but I wouldn't mind 

picking a brain or two to know
and find out the deal with this ice. 
This glass, was it too big? Or too
small? Too surreal? Is it all just 
a counterfeit sham? 

Have I been too precise? Or am I 

just the man. 

How come is my song, yo. I didn't 
even write it but it sang me 
so rock 
and so slow 

and so sway
in these arms, and step 
so measurably more into
whatever's left, which we've had 

in store.