Practice man lives a lyric.
Chris Kristofferson
in a Norweigan town.
Driving for distraction
on memory's permafrost.

An old boy grabbing
for glory days
that slide away
like the memory of hair.
Edvard Munch Saturday.

He doesn't believe
in god or dancing
love has no rhythm.
There are lies under his lids.

Sweating it out
avoiding mirrors.
He doesn’t care for fashion
but has Chanel roll on.

Practice man fears
the beauty in Petra's tears
and takes a sip of beer.
Back on the sofa
too soon.