When waking from the seizure all I heard
was country music, those guitar twangs played
again and then again. They kept on, stayed
inside my head, wore grooves. I wished for bird-
song, not those tunes of trucks and broken love.
I’ve never been a country fan, but round
and round the songs went, and their wrenching sound
soon lulled me, strangely fit me like a glove.
(I don’t know where this poem came from!)