Fred Aiken Writing

i woke up to a dolly parton song blaring,
that one about working 9-to-5,
and i immediately thought it was my alarm on my phone,
but i don’t remember setting it,
and it’s saturday, and i don’t have wake up early,
the sun isn’t out, the night sky blinks iridescent dust through
the curtains on my bedroom windows,

i realize the ms. parton’s soulful melody
emanates from downstairs,
someone else, someone i did not invite into my slice of hoosegow
made from drywalls, concrete, and 2×4’s, with a dab of paint,
snuck right through one of my doors
and began playing dolly parton,
maybe to mock me, maybe to suggest that i don’t have enough groove in my step,
or perhaps dolly parton is the burgalar’s favorite artist,
and hearing dolly parton inspires them to rob better…

i guess, 
i might go downstairs to ask