all banjos are haunted

in scripted fashion we said
what could possibly go wrong?
a ramshackle storefront
for a ramshackle town
in a rundown county that
we loved into existence

the battered resonator
was a gorgeous relic in a
place where belief was a
like coffee or real estate
its scorched skin drumhead
an ashtray of thumbprints

the tightwire twang
of a damned lonely soul plus
or minus the bum-ditty thump
of ghostly hooves
thundering down fireroads
a clawhammer crack of doom

the banjo isn’t out of tune
the same as a haunting
isn’t about ghosts
but unfinished business
and unsung songs given
that we’re instruments too

Will D. plays the banjo with the devil on his knee. Futher scribbles under

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